Red and Yellow, Black and White (to the tune of Gale Garnett's Prism Song, 1964) Copyright

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Red and Yellow, Black and White (to the tune of Gale Garnett's Prism Song, 1964) Copyright 1992 by Musetta Giles (Humanist and Mensa publications may reprint freely as long as the whole song, the background information, the copyright information, and the reprint information are included. Please send a courtesy copy to the author at P.O. Box 14231, Columbus, OH 43214. Other users should contact the author for permission.) Red and yellow, black and white, Let's get together and talk tonight. Tell the truth and have some fun, Let's get together, everyone. White man beat a black man in my town, I can't take this comin' down. I'd keep still, but if I do, The man who beat the black man kill my roommate, too. Red and yellow, black and white, Let's get together and talk tonight. Tell the truth and have some fun, Let's get together, everyone. Let's take the guns and put 'em away. If you can't play right, you just can't play. Limey cops do without guns at all. Dutch cops sign 'em out on special call. Cops who like to hit ain't fit for the job. All they do is aggravate the mob. If you feel contempt for the people you serve, Get another job while you got the nerve. Red and yellow, black and white, Let's get together and talk tonight. Tell the truth and have some fun, Let's get together, everyone. Courtesy's the oil of society, Keep your language clean and your mind free. Bashing other people is a dirty act. Just get along, be a soul of tact. Red and yellow, black and white, Let's get together and talk tonight. Tell the truth and have some fun, Let's get together, everyone. I was sitting in the cafeteria at work on June 20, 1992, thinking of people and organizations who could use a computer bulletin board. I remembered the national MENSA INTER-M SIG for people who are in interracial or interfaith relationships, and Rodney King's question, "Can't we just get along?" came to mind. The first part of the song wrote itself. Two days later, the last three verses came to me. That night, I shared the poem at Ann Throckmorton's--and with it, my rage at the fact that now I fear the police more than I do criminals, both for myself and for my roommate, who is an African-American man. I reminded them how, earlier this year, a woman in another city called the police because her daughter was being assaulted. The responding officer shot her, because all he could see was a 200 lb. person in black clothes on a dark staircase. I could be shot under similar circumstances. And in this city or any other, my roommate is in danger of brutal assault just because of his skin. There have been too many stories in the local papers alone for me to be blind to that.

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