The Texas heat is flattening my curls

Which I spent so many minutes perfecting.

The pink car is traveling at a snail's pace,

Allowing me to see the amazing crowd.

'This state is important to us,' he would always tell me.

'The 1964 election is closing in,' 'I need to win Texas over.'

Once again uprooted from my home, I decide this is necessary.

Here and now, the crowd is cheering.

I am waving from my seat. 

I glance at our driver, the one protecting our lives,

To see a pistol in his hands.

John throws his arms up, keeping a casual face.

He wouldn't want the crowd to riot.

A silenced bang escapes the weapon,

And blood begins to trickle down my husband's dress shirt.

I look at him, I grab his face, I hold his hand.

A single tear escapes from my eye,

And suddenly his brains are staining

Everything in the cab.

My nice pretty pink shirt.

The nice pretty pink car.

I leap over the back seat, trying to get away.

It still hasn't hit me.

Why? Why!!

This can't be happening, not to my love.

Not to my man.

Not to the president.

Not to the president.