They killed us in our teepees and they cut our women down

They might have left some babies crying on the ground

But the firesticks and the wagons come

And the night falls on the setting sun

They massacred the buffalo, kitty corner from the bank

The taxis run across my feet and my eyes have turned to blanks

In my little box at the top of the stairs

With my indian rug and a pipe to share

I wish I was a trapper, I would give a thousand pelts

To sleep with Pocahontas and find out how she felt

In the morning on the fields of green

In the homeland we've never seen