Fluorescent lights. She said what he did. No tears. Voice flat.

That’s how women testify. Hold still. Save the shaking for the car, the shower, 3 a.m.

Twelve strangers. Eighty-three million.

Wrote this in one sitting. Didn’t revise. She didn’t get to revise. Said it plain. Waited.

They believed her.

Verse 1

She stood in a courtroom, coat buttoned tight,
Said, “He pulled down my tights and forced me inside.”
She spoke it plain — no metaphor there.
He sat at the table, eyes hard and wide.
No music swelled. No voices rose.
Just air gone thin, and the moment froze.

Verse 2

“I didn’t scream. That’s not how I fight.”
Fluorescent bulbs. The edges of night.
She said it had happened, fast and alone,
A locked room, no witness, no flight.
No one stood up. No camera panned.
Only the truth, and where it would land.

Bridge

They said she was lying. Said it too late.
The jury returned with the actual weight.
Not vengeance — just proof. Not anger — just fact.
Eighty-three million, signed in black.
No handshake. No glance. No hint of regret.
But the record was read, and it hasn’t been read back yet.

Outro

Piggy is as piggy does.
That’s what she said.
That’s what he was.

I come from people who remember what was said. Who repeat it at kitchen tables, at gravesides, in the car on the way home. That’s all a song is. Remembering out loud. She said what he was. Piggy. The jury agreed. I wrote it down. Now you have it too.

Gene Scott grew up on an Illinois tenant farm where kitchen-table tales mixed magic with hog farms and strip mines. After 40 years in East Tennessee, he’s witnessed nature’s raw power—and its quiet grace to heal what’s broken.