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!
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