Slip the glove upon my hand for the ants to soothe the pain of something else.
The stings are fading in, not striking me as same, but Indian.
Been rubbing salt in sores to wash awat the heat. Is it Indian?
And as my eyes begin to cloud I acknowledge I’ve been beat. Or Indian.
Are we riding the chance or slipping down the drain in the end.
Are my roots to save me now? Will I prevail somehow? I’m Indian.
I firmly do believe there will come a change indeed in the end.
The pain will flicker hy. It shall turn away and die in the end.
Though I’m no pedigree I won’t fall down to my knees. I’m Indian.
And we are riding the chance, not slipping down the drain in the end.
And my roots must save us now when I prevail somehow. I’m Indian.
As the Frantic Cowboy dies his friends around him cry, «My God! It’s the Indians!»
As the Fickle Fairy cheers, shouting, «no more tears, you’re Indian».