In the Hills of South Dakota

In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota, On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota, Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race— Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace. We now bring contributions of food and clothes on Christmas Eve— Given by those who know their plight as we smile and slowly leave. Over a hundred years now and their progress still seems too slow— A once noble people clinging to a past they’ll never know. And what is the price of progress when we conquered the Old West And took the proud Indian down a trail that we thought was best? And what of free range, a way of life – the country we stood for? We hid it on reservations so it would haunt us no more. So we ride past reservations – think that we have done our best, As time erases memories of a people and the West— Once a year we sooth our egos and add money to the pot, Hoping time heals miseries and we can keep what we have got. In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota, On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota, Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race— Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace.