By fence and gun prevail.

 

Ancient ways no strength to save

The weakened tribes, by battle thinned.

Gone, gone are life and home.

Disease, starvation ride the wind.

 

One weapon white, fierce as cannon,

Cheap, deadly means of slaughter,

Ranging over tribe and totem.

The liquid arrow, the firewater.

 

Aching head, slow shameful stumble,

Proud people in tragic hour.

The Reservations gray with want

Brood the loss of land and power.

 

But all things change.

The fallen rise; the winners fall.

Gun and arrow obsolete;

Chance, not drink, white men enthrall.

 

Laws meant to bind now open ways

For favored few to reach for gain.

Through the day and through the night

The native has a weapon strong

 

Of urging, silent power.

Glowing neon tents of slaughter.

In wood and prairie, casinos flower,

Beckon parent, son, and daughter

 

Who throw their substance fast away,

Yet mark it as a matter small.

Another roll; another chance.

This the way that white men fall. 

 

                                                          J. Streed