Here we came to retell the story

Of the son of the morning glory

Of a man dwindling in a swing

He was mad to become a king

Far away in an ancient land

Lived a tribe that fell in the sand

Mesmerized by a blond bold man

Who ride free as far as he can

Creeping in silence across the small wade

Glistening rifles reflecting the shade

Those are the best Uncle Sam ever made

Still calm and silent the camp is at dawn

Children are playing, and squaws tend a fawn

No one imagine the horror upon

Sounding their charge in a shot of a gun

Two hundred beasts send the indians to run

Smiling savages start an hell of a fun

Twelve bloody moons have rotate over Earth

Redmen are ready to kill in their berths

Those in blue jackets and with yellow scarfs

Tearing the sky with their maddening cry

Six Thousand warriors are willing to die

Versus the blue men they are bidding their lives

Vengeance is due, even Gods sometimes lie

Whom they destroy after giving the fame

Custer his name and perpetual his shame

Ripping through fleshbone and twisting the blade

Listening to death as their souls start to fade

Slowly, but firmly red vengeance is made

Only black vultures now crossing the sky

Streams red of blood do the same in the vale

Lonely coyotes in the distance make call

No man no wolf utter some small reply

Here lies the blond man whose face looks so pale

Readers beware: even heroes may fall