He was not from these parts; a big city teen.
At Five – Six not imposing, he was barely fourteen.
A big city teen with a bit of a mouth,
which was bad for a black man in the heart of the South.
A warm summer day in an old country store,
The white girl was a looker; that much was sure.
Emmitt Till whistled for he was impressed
With how good that girl looked in that tight fitting dress.
That girl had a husband, a big burly man.
He was a bad man to cross for he rode with the ****.
He and his cousin sought out Emmitt Till.
If a man can die slowly they both swore this one will.
The two held Emmitt captive in an old wooden barn.
They strung him up with barbed wire and broke both of his arms.
They gouged out one eye for the pleasure of pain
Then they dragged out to the river his mortal remains.
His poor mother wept when she saw what they’d done;
How they’d tortured and murdered her beloved son.
She mourned, open casket, and word soon got out
How Black men were killed in the Heart of the South.
The law found Till’s killers and brought them to court.
But the jury was friendly (or else they were bought).
The two killers went free, smiling, down the court steps.
But their sins lit a fire folks here won’t forget.
After Till’s death Civil Rights was the cause
There were marches and protests; the movement changed laws
The ****’s hold would be broken; of that do not doubt,
And, slowly, things changed in the heart of the South.
Emmitt Till, a native of Chicago, Illinois was tortured and killed by two white clansmen in the waning days of August 1955. His crime was whistling at a white girl in Glendora ,Mississippi