The Klan
by Alan Arkin and David Arkin, 1951
The countryside was cold and still
There was a cross upon the hill
This cold cross wore a burning hood
To hide its rotten heart of wood
Father I hear the iron sound
Of hoofbeats on the frozen ground
Down from the hills the riders came
Jesus, it was a crying shame
To see the blood upon their whips
And hear the snarling of their lips
Mother I feel a stabbing pain
Blood flows down like a summer rain
Now each one wore a mask of white
To hide his cruel face from sight
and each one sucks a little breath
Out of the empty lungs of death
Sister lift my bloody head
It's so lonesome to be dead
He who travels with the Klan
He is a monster, not a man
Underneath that white disguise
I have looked into his eyes
Brother, will you stand with me
it's not easy to be free
