Winter In America: 'Ain’t Nobody Fighting Cause Nobody Knows What To Say'

 WINTER IN AMERICA

By GIL SCOTT-HERON 

Uh from the Indians who welcomed the pilgrims  

And to the buffalos who once ruled the plains  

Like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds looking for the rain  

Looking for the rain Just like the cities stagger on the coastline  

In a nation that just can’t stand much more  

Like the forest buried beneath the highway, never had a chance to grow  

Never had a chance to grow And now it’s winter, winter in America  

Yes now that all of the killers have been killed, sent away,   

Yeah  

But the people know, the people know, it’s winter Winter in America  

And ain’t nobody fighting cause  

Nobody knows what to say  

Save your soul, lord knows from Winter in America  

The constitution, a noble piece of paper  

With free society, a struggle but they died in vain  

And now democracy is a ragtime on the corner  

Hoping for some rain  

It looks like he’s hoping, hoping for some rain  

And I see the robins perched in barren treetops  

Watching lasting racists marching across the floor  

Just like the peace sign that vanished in our dreams  

Never had a chance to grow  

Never had a chance to grow  

And now it’s winter  

Winter in America  

Yes now that all of the killers have been killed, or betrayed,  

Yeah  

But the people know, the people know, it’s winter  

Lord knows it’s winter in America  

And ain’t nobody fighting cause nobody knows what to say  

Save your soul  

From a winter in America  

Stick  

And now it’s winter Winter in America  

And now that all of the killers done been killed, sent away  

The people know, the people know, it’s winter Winter in America  

And ain’t nobody fighting cause nobody knows what to say  

And ain’t nobody fighting cause nobody knows nobody knows  

And ain’t nobody fighting cause nobody knows what to say 

Make no mistake about it, GIL SCOTT-HERON (1949-2011) is the true father of rap music, but aside from his oft-quoted poem-song, "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised," this brilliant spoken word performer labored in relative obscurity during his too short life. Gil called himself a”bluesologist,” and the stories he told in his fusion of jazz, blues and soul were eerily prescient.