An Indian friend asked me to write a poem some time back think it might go goo here:A single feather upon her brow, this squaw was not a scout.
Standing stout, her proud was as loud as a totem in a whirlwind of confusion and doubt.
Banshee screamed she, revenge was not the deed in need.
Powwow was the deem she meant to be instill in the young Indian steeds.
Sitting on a bull headdress all about, the chief had no doubt this squaw was devout with her banshee squelch.
Pull together like a papoose held tight to a young squaws breast.
The wrong in all of man's laws, will cause us no flaws.
The land we will be free to bury the tomahawk deep with in the sea of despise and remiss in history's misdeed