Eleven 'fore my birth,
Still etched in my mind as if I was there,
Enduring nation's curse,
Many stories have been written claiming,
The real truth of that day,
Who really shot President Kennedy,
Cuba, Mafia or the C.I.A.
Would but my own death be shrouded as such,
In so much mystery,
One way of ensuring eternal life,
Of someone's memory.
Thanks for keeping alive,
The thought that there could be a president,
Who'll truly fight on the peoples' side.