November 1868

Bloody was the scene. November 1868 Was the beginning and the end of so much blood! The spreading echoes And fade extended far, down the village of Southern Cheyenne, behind the depth of the Sand Greek Massacre, With the shine of women and children Was the luxuriant of a man named Boy General? Or the soulless Long Hair assassin! In throng books of history whose branches gleaming With silly prospect, given Glory Hunter With his tilted sombrero, an accord hero But we must extent our eyes far way back And took him as a butcher and a murder, In pencil-and-stones as the monster that was that Cuter. The scene was November of 1868—- Whence its greatness of it was the pure blood— The spread lot of children's hearts And voices that never die! Resounded far In today melody, the happy lot, the lake of gusts. Bloody was the victory from yesterday, but today, As a fine arm, down the depths and once again, From whom our past stand, it must create By the bloody freedom that a man named Glory Hunter—- Long Hair has no more— Who’s slated us to be stronger? Fighting the rules from a past. What rules? You must ask. The rules that we know—being a free Indian, Being an Indian at last!