Trail of Tears
The year of 1830 is where my tale begins
The southeastern mountains started giving gold, and then
With elbow room for the pickin’ growing mighty slim
The United States stretched out its great arms again over the Indians

President Andrew Jackson signed it into law with pen
The Indian Removal Act almost guaranteed an end
But the government must peacefully negotiate with them
If the Indians refuse, the contingency plan is kick ’em off the land

The Cherokee, Seminole, Chickasaw, the Choctaw, and Creek—
You had five civilized tribes living east of the Mississippi
Even with assimilation, the price would be too steep;
For twenty-some million acres, you lay down;
You kiss the devil’s boot heels

So thus began the tedious burden of removal
While treaty rights and Supreme Court rulings were denied and refused
You know, John Marshall’s court declared we must abide by what we swore
Jackson said, “In the inevitability of progress, son, your decisions here are stillborn.”
So progress is what he cited as the reason for migration
To save them from extinction, we must remove them from their nation
Their rights do not compare with the visions of so many
Jackson said, “My gospel should be plenty to get my face on the $20.”

By 1838, the task had fallen to Van Buren
But nothing could’ve changed the same god they had been serving
They coerced some into signing; but the principal chief, he never signed it
But there was nothing to be done once the Feds had it in writing

So little bit by little bit, as it is with most great evils
Their people have been sacrificed upon civilization’s table
From the city to the state, and from the state across the country
There’s blood upon this land, and there’s a curse upon the centuries

And it shames me when I think of how my nation still refuses
To take upon their fathers’ guilt and repent for these abuses
We still laud the names of Jackson, Sherman, Washington, and Lincoln
While we demonize the names of men who’ve done much lesser evils

Let’s not forget: the game in which we play’s a game of inches
Life is short, life is long; it all depends on who’s the victim
And everything we say or do, you know, may still be used against us
When the Judge of every nation calls upon their blood to witness

The cry from the death march was so fierce
After 200 years, we still call it the Trail of Tears
One Georgia soldier looking back recalled
It was the cruelest business that he ever saw
In record cold and winter months, they left
Men, women, and children walked a thousand miles into the West
Some 13,000 Cherokee moved on
Some 4,000 died between Tennessee and Oklahoma

And it won’t be made right until the day
The land is restored, and their dead are raised from the grave