'Mother dear, may I go downtown <br />Instead of out to play, <br />And march the streets of Birmingham <br />In a Freedom March today?' <br /> <br />'No, baby, no, you may not go, <br />For the dogs are fierce and wild, <br />And clubs and hoses, guns and jails <br />Aren't good for a little child.' <br /> <br />'But, mother, I won't be alone. <br />Other children will go with me, <br />And march the streets of Birmingham <br />To make our country free.' <br /> <br />'No baby, no, you may not go <br />For I fear those guns will fire. <br />But you may go to church instead <br />And sing in the children's choir.' <br /> <br />She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, <br />And bathed rose petal sweet, <br />And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, <br />And white shoes on her feet. <br /> <br />The mother smiled to know that her child <br />Was in the sacred place, <br />But that smile was the last smile <br />To come upon her face. <br /> <br />For when she heard the explosion, <br />Her eyes grew wet and wild. <br />She raced through the streets of Birmingham <br />Calling for her child. <br /> <br />She clawed through bits of glass and brick, <br />Then lifted out a shoe. <br />'O, here's the shoe my baby wore, <br />But, baby, where are you?'<br /><br />Dudley Randall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ballad-of-birmingham-2/
