The poem
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the color of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time 'twas hanging for the color that it is; Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable color of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare, And they're taking him to justice for the color of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet, And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, And between his spells of labor in the time he has to spare He can curse the God that made him for the color of his hair.
Forty years ago a motorcycle officer, Sgt. Wyatt, threatened repeatedly to arrest us for "the color of our hair" whilst marching the block in downtown Miami, Florida. This poem reflects my personal perils and secrecies and inner outrages in my coming of age.