Imagine seeing your dead fall down in the streets
To a spectacle of racist bloodshed with front row seats
Rich, poor, young, old, the color of your hands means your story\'s told
Watching the bodies hit silently against the ground
As the sirens blare out in red and blue
Your mouth opens to let out a sound
But no one will be there listening to you
Stare as they pin him down, a man with no guns to be found
Look as that knee slams on his neck
Struggling to reach breath
After breath
Gasping
For air
And eight minutes pass
With those fatal words escaping the crushed pipes of sound
\"I can\'t breathe\" words from a man with no guns to be found
He wasn\'t the first to say them, and he won\'t be last
An everlasting reminder of an oppressive, racial past
But the perpetrators walk away, world left aghast
Your mouth opens to let out a sound
Watching each body hit against the ground
The day the deaf fail to hear the cries
The cries of change, the cries of pain
All fall limp and falter against hearts of stone
Left with the stories of the slain
The voiceless will scream again and again
Until their words aren\'t enough
If you won\'t listen to reason, listen to the sounds of broken glass
Listen to the flames kindled in the streets
Now will be the time for your front row seat