Standard (EADGBE)
Stepped off the train and looked for Fruitvale signs
The January air it whips across my spine
Whoa Whoa
We've been suffering the six days since he died
I saw a picture of his mother as she cried
Go to where the people go, we'll dig some decent wine
And it burns hard and real
To feel his feel
They're putting clothes to flame, an imaginary sun
A little boot heel down for a solitary gun