"Please don't go, Paul," the young girl cried
"I must, for my uncle has already died."
"And you shall be next," was her protest
Alas, "I love you" was all he did profess
And to the ticketer, his fate he gave.

The man travelled to Alabama state,
And little nothing everyone ate.
All were hungry, but not for food,
But for the soul, justice, and for good.
For they would fight for it to their grave.

A great big march was held that year,
And freedom fighters' voices ran through and clear
And dear Paul's voice took a part
With every word coming from his heart
"They are people, just like us!"

Firehoses and guns, policemen's bats
Didn't stop them from getting at
What they knew would be right,"
If everyone just took a part in the fight.
The people listened, and more came from a bus.

But the next day gave a warning
By the red sky in the morning
Paul faced his fate without a fear
And soon silence hung in the air
As Martin placed a flag in the limp hand.

It's thirty-five years, down to the day
And the grief I have, I cannot say.
Death took my love when we were young,
But Paul meant what he said with his tongue,
And someday, we will again frollick in the sand.

Most have forgotten about Paul,
But I cannot forget him at all.
As I place flowers upon his grave,
I remember the fateful ticket he gave.
But a smile creeps across my face
For I know we will soon embrace
Once again in our secret meeting place.

~CLH, 03-08-00