Sand Creek

Sand Creek Dawn arises And a line of good, blue-coated American boys Sit astride their horses Just outside the camp. They wait Outside the Cheyanne camp: Those animals they were here to hunt, For Country, God and Glory: They took no mind Of their own flag, Fluttering in the breeze Just behind them. Who now will prove to be the animals? With one sharp bark, And a toss of his yellow hair Their leader charged forth to kill everyone In their path, Panting in the crisp winter air; All howling and baying. To kill the innocent Indians there. They knew not what had happened As they heard the guns; Running through the snow in rank confusion, Men, women and children alike Felt the sting of hot lead Invade their bodies, And fell hard in the grip of merciless death, Painting the snow with Great patches of bright red. And those not so lucky, Died by the cutlass and the bayonet. Those who escaped for a time Were cut by the ice of a frozen creek, But those cuts were as nothing To the cut of losing loved ones. While the bluecoated Goodboys Robbed the bodies of their clothes - And limbs - The hidden still living waited, And hated, hated, hated The bluecoated wolves were heroes, So it was said, But not heroes, only wolves Would do such in things, And at least wolves do so to survive. They claimed the Cheyanne were savages, But it seems they were the best of teachers, In this respect. What to do with such beasts as these? Kill them, surely. After that, the Cheyanne tried, And many died, but they tried All the same. And in that place, The bluecoat stench Shall evermore reek. Shed a tear, Shed many, For the victims Of Sand Creek.