Standing there on the corner
Right there by the door
The carved and lonely wooden mourner
To those who shuffle th' dusty moccasin floor

He likem' good smoke
He likem' his fire-water
Manhattan for some beads; he's broke
And then quietly lead off to slaughter

His stoic frozen features
Like a mem'ry from a simpler time
Before the governmental preachers
Proselytized that with words and thoughts we commit crimes

If he could only speak
Oh, the stories he could tell
He'd hold the customers for a week
And we'd all see how far we fell

But he might say “Kemo Sabe
“Don't let it get him down
“Just bring wampum to casino Sunday
“It always fool who wears crown"

With the wisdom of the years
Will he fly far from the raptor?
Or stand in trash with eyes full of tears
Smoke the pipe of peace as they write to close his chapter

Ain't no more standing on the corner
There's now an ATM by the door
And the store is owned by a foreigner
Who's been displaced by the most recent war

We used to likem' good smoke
We used to likem' good fire-water
No shirt, no shoes, no service; no joke
Neighborhood kids used for cannon fodder

Wonder where's that Indian now?
I heard they hauled him away as insensitive
With no chance to even ask “How?”
Seems the price of freedom sure keeps on getting expensive