Black, Black Hills
Oh black, Black hills above the grass,
rising up like a giant hold-fast.
On your sides heros are carved,
cut by patriotic hearts.
Great stone needles rising high,
futilely reaching for the sky.
Bison graze and great elk roam,
through forest and prairie homes.
In late summer the bikers roar,
and Sturgis opens up its doors.
Deadwood boasts of cowboys great,
Bullock, Hickock, aces’n’eights.
Stunning depths of the wind cave,
where the mountains meet the plains.
Oh black, Black Hills above the grass,
I wander your trails, at long last.
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