The End-Ian Poem by James Foraker

In the time of stone, when steel was not known, there lived a people, where we call home.
The people were red, and tanned from the sun, their children were happy, they played and had fun.
They hunted great bison, and fished in the streams.
They slept good at night, and had no bad dreams, the people were fair, and honor was strong.
They told great stories, when winter nights were long.
They had bows and arrows, and their Spears to hunt with.
But when fighting the enemy-as everyone knew, no killing was done they just counted coup. The Indian. The Red Man. The Squaw.
The Papoose. The Iron Horse.
The Cavalry. With Custer on the loose.
Honor and fair play, is gone from the bands, cause Yellow Hair and those like him, have stolen the Indians lands.
The Government. The Reservations. The white man's way, have turned their hearts, to dismay.
A sad people now, in song and in verse, some sit by the roadside, stringing beads on a purse.
A drink... now and then, a job... here and there, for a 'people so proud', it doesn't seem fair.

James Foraker
Written 9-3-1989.