You told me you cried when Kennedy was shot,
Mourning with most of the world
That twenty-second day of November, 1963.

Mama tell me what it was like
To touch Malcolm's hand,
To feel his smile and know his soul.

Where were you Mama when that bullet rang?
When a gentleman named King was struck
For the last time.

Mama tell me about these seasons of change.
Why do cowards kill and what makes a man?
Why did you cry when Kennedy was shot?