A policeman and the mayor, a lawyer and a preacher,
Were on a farm at midnight wearing their white robes.
One's running for election, one wants a big promotion,
An' two of them have a contract on my soul.
The bigots never even saw me drive right by,
I wasn't exactly going 55.

There were three burning crosses on the right side of the highway,
There were prob'ly more of them, I don't wanna know.
In this town it isn't hard work that makes a man successful,
It who his parents are and who he knows.

That farmer sold his homestead, a farm of eighty acres,
Guess the city badly needs his fertile land.
An' that preacher left his garbage in the minds of lots of children:
Did his best to make them judge their fellow man.
And that preacher whispered: "Can't you see the Promised Land?"
As he laid his dusty bible in the mayor's hand

There were three burning crosses on the right side of the highway,
There were prob'ly more of them, I don't wanna know.
In this town it isn't hard work that makes a man successful,
It who his parents are and who he knows.

I heard the lies that preacher told last Sunday.
As he held his unopened bible up,
I didn't stay very long.
He said: "Bless the lawyer, the policeman, and the mayor;
And free us from that obnoxious man
Who always says they're wrong."

There were three burning crosses on the right side of the highway,
There were prob'ly more of them, I don't wanna know.
In this town it isn't hard work that makes a man successful,
It who his parents are and who he knows.

There were three burning crosses on the right side of the highway.