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    A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers' blood.
    A finger fired the trigger to his name.
    A handle hid out in the dark
    A hand set the spark
    Two eyes took the aim
    Behind a man's brain
    But he can't be blamed
    He's only a pawn in their game.

    A South politician preaches to the poor white man,
    "You got more than the blacks, don't complain.
    You're better than them, you been born with white skin," they explain.
    And the Negro's name
    Is used it is plain
    For the politician's gain
    As he rises to fame
    And the poor white remains
    On the caboose of the train
    But it ain't him to blame
    He's only a pawn in their game.

    The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid,
    And the marshals and cops get the same,
    But the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool.
    He's taught in his school
    From the start by the rule
    That the laws are with him
    To protect his white skin
    To keep up his hate
    So he never thinks straight
    'Bout the shape that he's in
    But it ain't him to blame
    He's only a pawn in their game.

    From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks,
    And the hoof beats pound in his brain.
    And he's taught how to walk in a pack
    Shoot in the back
    With his fist in a clinch
    To hang and to lynch
    To hide 'neath the hood
    To kill with no pain
    Like a dog on a chain
    He ain't got no name
    But it ain't him to blame
    He's only a pawn in their game.

    Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught.
    They lowered him down as a king.
    But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
    That fired the gun
    He'll see by his grave
    On the stone that remains
    Carved next to his name
    His epitaph plain:
    Only a pawn in their game.

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    Todas as letras de Bob Dylan

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