Custer Must Die
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
adds pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We have no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We have no Custer,
three fair haired kids, no long flowing hair
no mustaches. Undaunted
we march on to meet an anonymous death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
tearing up the hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal), loudly proclaimed: " it,"
to no one in particular, then sloped away,
hands in pockets.
We had heard of this common oath of course,
but none of us were old enough
to pull that salty phrase out of nowhere
with such aplomb.
Now in my elder days, I like to envision,
Custer and Chief Sitting Bull,
smoking a little weed
agreeably together,
jointly deciding
to call the whole thing off.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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