| As I awoke this evening
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| With the smell of woodsmoke clinging
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| Like a gentle cobweb hanging
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| Upon a painted tepee
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| Oh, I went to see my chieftain
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| With my warlance and my woman
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| For he told us that the yellow moon
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| Would very soon be leaving
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| This I can’t believe I said
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| I can’t believe our Warlord’s dead
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| Oh, he would not leave the chosen ones
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| To the buzzards and the soldiers' guns
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| Oh, great father of the Iroquois
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| Ever since I was young
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| I’ve read the writing of the smoke
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| And breast-fed on the sound of drums
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| I’ve learned to hurl the tomahawk
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| And ride a painted pony wild
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| To run the gauntlet of the Sioux
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| To make a chieftain’s daughter mine
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| And now you ask that I should watch
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| The red man’s race be slowly crushed?
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| What kind of words are these to hear
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| From Yellow Dog, whom white man fears?
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| I take only what is mine, Lord
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| My pony, my squaw, and my child
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| I can’t stay to see you die
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| Along with my tribe’s pride
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| I go to search for the yellow moon
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| And the fathers of our sons
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| Where the red sun sinks in the hills of gold
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| And the healing waters run
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| Trampling down the prairie rose
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| Leaving hoof tracks in the sand
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| Those who wish to follow me
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| I welcome with my hands
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| I heard from passing renegades
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| Geronimo was dead
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| He’d been laying down his weapons
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| When they filled him full of lead
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| Now there seems no reason why
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| I should carry on
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| In this land that once was my land
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| I can’t find a home
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| It’s lonely and it’s quiet
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| And the horse soldiers are coming
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| And I think it’s time I strung my bow
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| And ceased my senseless running
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| For soon I’ll find the yellow moon
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| Along with my loved ones
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| Where the buffaloes graze in clover fields
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| Without the sound of guns
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| And the red sun sinks at last
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| Into the hills of gold
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| And peace to this young warrior
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| Comes with a bullet hole |