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Little Big One
There is an Indian chief,
known as Little Big One.
He rides his horse with a gun.
The white man came,
with boats and trains.
He rides his horse with a gun.
They fight nature with squares,
In their grids and their streets.
He rides his horse with a gun.
Built their town over his settlement
They owned the land, they claimed.
He rides his horse with a gun.
There is beauty in roundness,
in the sun, the flowers, the moon.
He rides his horse with a gun.
They traded quite well,
They seemed generous enough.
He rides his horse with a gun.
Their grids, their streets,
like prison bars came.
He rides his horse with a gun.
No man owns the land,
land cannot be bought, like the sky.
He rides his horse with a gun.
The killed his wife,
and his two children.
He rides his horse with a gun.
He followed the street,
how their streets have betrayed them.
He rides his horse with a gun.
He stepped up to
their settlement camp.
He rides his horse with a gun.
He opened the door,
they were all fast asleep.
He rides his horse with a gun.
Picked up the man
who killed his family.
He rides his horse with a gun.
The man woke with a start,
and amazement at what he saw.
He rides his horse with a gun.
Understanding dawned
on this man.
He rides his horse with a gun.
He asked one question,
"How did you get here?"
"... I ride my horse with a gun."
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Indian culture was big with my grandfather. And I suppose the fascination passed on to me.