Who would suspect me? (Who?)
Pillar of community (Yeah)
Wife and kids, living free (Free)
Dark secrets, can't you see? (See?)
Can you honestly say (What?)
Never wanted someone gone? (Nah)
Fleeting thought on a bad day (Day)
When someone's done you wrong (Wrong)

Little Jimmy, eight years old, called to the study
Headmaster's cane, but fate got bloody
Tripped and fell, pen through the eye
Who would suspect? Just a little guy
Angel face, scraped knees, first to yell for help
Picture of innocence, yeah, that's how I dealt
Teenage years, crush had a different beau
Bike accident, tragic, but put on a show
Found him first, tears in my eyes
Blood on my hands, perfect alibi
Who would suspect? The grieving friend
Got the girl too, but that had to end

Workshop drama, boss caught in the lathe
Tried to stop it, but a second too late
First on scene, shock on my face
Who would suspect? I set the pace
Years roll by, bodies pile up
Accidents happen, that's just my luck
Neighbour's kid, music too loud
Car exploded, drew quite a crowd
Who would suspect? Upstanding citizen
Church volunteer, reputation heaven-sent
Hiding darkness behind this mask
Getting away with every task

Now I'm Old James, grandkids on my knee
Looking back on a life lived secretly
Family tradition, hope they'll carry on
My legacy when I'm dead and gone
Who would suspect? The doting grandpa
Telling stories, but not the real saga
Lifetime of secrets, hidden so well
Truth behind smiles, no one can tell

Had I a land that I might call my home,
I would be glad;
But I'm compelled this cruel world to roam
With feeling sad,
Because the Lord, in his wise way, preferred
To make me black;
Therefore the lighter races of this earth
Would keep me back.

Methinks, sometimes, it is a hard, rough lot
The Negro has to bear, willing or not:
He's scorned and driv'n about from door to door
Without an open ear to his implore;
Without a heart's being touched by his sad plight;
Without a hand to help his way to fight,
Save that of God, who doth all things aright.

Two hundred eighty years have past and gone
Since first he trod upon this unkind land:
Two hundred eighty years of basest wrong
Pollute this nation's history, to stand
As long as this creation shall extend,
Though not recorded by historian's pen.

The boasted pride sung by this populace,
The liberty and freedom talked upon
Are not enjoyed by this darker race,
Although these do by right to it belong.

A flag which doth enshroud beneath its fold
Such deeds of crime unwritten and untold,
Save by the hand and tongue of the oppressed,
Or by a friend,—of whom we few possess,—
Is not a flag of freedom, nor for right,
However long it wave, or to what height.

Yet, such a flag does now wave o'er our head,
Intent our names to hide of martyred dead;
But no; the Negro's tongue shall not be hushed,
Nor his protesting feeling e'er be crushed,
Until the hand of dastard crime is stayed
And bound by freedom's laws, by free men made.