Co-ops turned to dust in Tuscaloosa oldfields,

union-hall ruins along the muddy banks of the Warrior,

sealed-off mines underneath the

hidden jungles of Beat-10,

lint-headed women, coaldusted men under the boss’s guns,

little children burnt black, brown, red in the sun,

spit at retired generals and dandy barons

what it really means to rise again.

Done playing dead.

Done playing dead.

Yeah, they’re done.

Yeah, they’re done playing.

Yeah, they’re done playing dead.

The sweet White Hall grass stirring with the ghosts of Tent City,

smell of potluck greens on the Letohatchee breeze,

ancient nighttime whispers of the

freedom schools all through Bloody Lowndes,

in the gravel lot of a pinebox church, grandchildren of

the enslaved tote 12-gauges, and make their

their mark for the Black Panther at the

sanctified sunken edge of that Blackbelt town.

Done playing dead.

Done playing dead.

Yeah, they're done.

Yeah, they're done playing.

Yeah, they're done playing dead.

Is it that we’re cursed,

or that we’re blessed

that when we’re backed in a corner

is when we fight our best?

From slash-cut hunting grounds around Notasulga,

the dammed-up falls at Tallassee,

the factory gates where the Prophet stomped,

shook the earth out from under Tuckabatchee square,

the old-time folks turned refugees by Jackson

taking root deep down into the cypress swamps.

Two hundred years, three wars, and the richest

empire on earth can’t push them out of there.

Done playing dead.

Done playing dead.

Yeah, they're done.

Yeah, they're done playing.

Yeah, they're done playing dead.