Isaac Woodard's Eyes
He was in the uniform of Uncle Sam,
Just home from service in a foreign land.
Hitler was dead, but not that Ol'Jim Crow.
So to the back of the bus he had to go.
At a stop in a sleepy South Carolina town
The police chief and his boys came around
They dragged that soldier out into the night
And beat him 'til they'd robbed him of his sight.

I think about that uniform he wore
A mother's son off fighting in a war.
To save another people from awful tyranny,
And coming home to find that he still wasn't free.

They threw him in the jail and took his pay.
Didn't bring a doctor in for 2 whole days.
Three weeks had passed before his family knew
The horrible ordeal he had been through.
But That police chief still held his head up high,
Acquitted by a jury that was all white.
In some sick way, maybe he felt justified.
His bitter hatred cloaked in a madman's shameful pride.

And I think about that uniform he wore,
A vow to protect he violently ignored.
They say that cop went on to live a long, long life.
I pray he dreamed each night of Isaac Woodard's eyes.

'Cause I think about that uniform he wore
A mother's son off fighting in a war
He helped defend his nation from a fearful enemy
And came back home to find that he still wasn't free.
He came home to find that he still wasn't free.