Steal The Red Mans Money

He arrived here like most of us did he was born here It is said, his people were here first long dead the kinsman In the back of his mind he knows his claim is more than he has But, he doesn't push the issue, considering he is slightly outnumbered His day is never what he wanted or desired it is just the way it is He gets by on federal welfare, a little venison and whiskey through the day They put oil derricks on the reservation trouble on the red mans land Pumping nature out of the ceremonial ground looking at him with disdain The old truck doesn't run anymore, it sits there with all the tires flat He bought it new, about five years ago, but it looks as if it is ancient All dented with rusty body, windows broke out it was a good truck once Would be nice to travel other than on foot if he had someplace to go Dust and weeds blowing across the backyard piled up against the fence Empty booze bottles, some broken all drained reflecting the sun blazing Dry is the climate in this hell of life and the tears that won't come No sadness is rationed for this lonely man only time and the bite of acceptance Go down to the trading post, buy some liquor walk back to the dust trap Drink and drink, and drink some more always too dry, always too sober Walk out to the truck, look at it and kick it go back inside and sit Wondering about those who sentenced him before his birth, to this......... ******** I hope no one is offended by this poem, I am part Apache, and Cherokee, and feel a closeness to the native american people    Butch Written February 14th, 2002 © on Feb 13 2002 04:04 PM PST   10 • 0 • 1