Raw, gray clouds roll across December frost
Big Chief Bigfoot waves flag upon a stick
but all that’s left are promises. The cost:
too many brothers lost and dying quick.
Oh, listen as their cries reverberate!
The young and old that bleed at Wounded Knee
still dances as a ghost beyond the hate;
their stamping feet mid sun sets all souls free.
On Greasy Grass dies Custer with no gold;
the Black Hills of Lakota still are free.
No stick with white flag may his men unfold;
a failed attack, his 7th Cavalry.
Run, run, boy! from your mother’s frantic fears.
Your baby brother’s heart will shed our tears.