• It was April fourth, nineteen sixty eight.
    I wish I had seen him, this man so great,
    before he was shot, before he was dead.
    I wish I had seen him speak of no dread,
    of the fight and the victories ahead.
    But he was killed, this man so very great,
    on April the fourth, nineteen sixty eight.
    It was outside the door, the bright blue door,
    where he once looked out but soon saw no more,
    'cause there was a shot at this man so great,
    on April the fourth, nineteen sixty eight.
    He spoke of standing on the mountain top,
    and that their dream couldn't and wouldn't stop,
    but then no words came from this man so great,
    after April fourth, nineteen sixty eight.
    But people still live out his very dreams,
    and people still remember him it seems.
    They still remember this man so damn great,
    and April the fourth, nineteen sixty eight.