Ferguson, Find Yourself Another Country to Be Part of

[I changed about three words of the beautiful old Phil Ochs song.]

Here’s to the town of Ferguson:
For underheath her borders, the Devil draws no lines,
If you drag her muddy river, nameless bodies you will find.
The fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes,
The calender is lyin’ when it reads the present time.
Here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of!

Here’s to the people of Ferguson
Who say the folks up north, they just don’t understand,
And they tremble in their shadows at the thunder of the Klan,
The sweating of their souls can’t wash the blood from off their hands,
They smile and shrug their shoulders at the murder of a man.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

Here’s to the schools of Ferguson
Where they’re teaching all the children that they don’t have to care;
All of rudiments of hatred are present everywhere,
And every single classroom is a factory of despair,
There’s nobody learning such a foreign word as “fair.”
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

Here’s to the cops of Ferguson:
They’re chewing their tobacco as they lock the prison door,
Their bellies bounce inside them as they knock you to the floor,
No they don’t like taking prisoners in their private little war,
Behind their broken badges there are murderers and more.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

And, here’s to the judges of Ferguson
Who wear the robe of honor as they crawl into the court,
They’re guarding all the bastions with their phony legal fort,
Oh, justice is a stranger when the prisoners report,
When the black man stands accused the trial is always short.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

And here’s to the government of Ferguson:
In the swamp of their bureaucracy they’re always bogging down,
And criminals are posing as the mayors of the towns,
They’re hoping that no one sees the sights and hears the sounds,
And the speeches of the governor are the ravings of a clown.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

And here’s to the laws of Ferguson:
The City Council gathers in a circus of delay,
While the Constitution is drowning in an ocean of decay,
Unwed mothers should be sterilized, I’ve even heard them say.
Yes, corruption can be classic in the Missouri way.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of.

And here’s to the churches of Ferguson
Where the cross, once made of silver, now is caked with rust,
And the Sunday morning sermons pander to their lust,
The fallen face of Jesus is choking in the dust,
Heaven only knows in which God they can trust.
Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of:
Ferguson, find yourself another country to be part of!