From the recording The Unreliable Narrators

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Elijah McClain, Elijah McClain
What you doing sneaking ‘round this place
Ain't doing no sneaking, just on my way home
Got a little something for a friend who’s feeling low
Ain’t causing trouble, ain't up to no good
I’d like to go home please sir if I could.
I don’t think so you sneakin’ little freak
Hands on your head now, get down on your knees

Elijah McClain, Elijah McClain
Pinned to the ground now and trying to explain
I’m a little different, won’t even kill flies
Like to play my violin for the stray cats going by
But they don’t hear you, their heads too full of hate
They see your coloured skin, and they cannot relate
Somebody’s son, one hundred thirty pounds
Three policemen crushed him to the ground

Elijah McClain, Elijah McClain
I hope forever we’re calling out your name
So many questions we’d like the answers to
Will there ever be justice for you?
And to those who hide behind the blue
What the hell kind of men are you
It’s the truth and it needs to be said
It’s ‘cause of you that this young man is dead

Ain’t coming home
Ain’t coming home
He ain’t ever coming home