My moccasins have tread

Many a long and weary mile.

Our days of glory and hunts

I remember well.

Now just dusty trails abound

In this dry Hell.



Upon this reservation I patiently sit

Wishing to be outside of it ,

Yet, I hold my head proudly

And without fear

Above the soldier's sword.



I will not take off my paint,

I will not leave my feathers

For your poorly made hats.

Does this make you mad?



Then use your sword swiftly

To make of me an example

To my poor suffering people

Riddled and torn from your greed,

So your every command they will heed.



Put the dusty trail to an end,

For this old Indian promises

To rise again.



In splendor to ride upon my Paint,

Hair mingled with feathers

Flying strong in the wind,

War Paint upon my bronze skin.

To lead my people against you,

For in the end we will always win!