An Alternative to an Altered Native

I'm not a young brave any more cause puberty 
passed me long agooo. 
I'm a Noble savage, here I goo Geronimooooo. 
I don't have a horse, its the modern age of fast 
cars and aero planes. 
Asphalt is beneath my feet, all they way to the 
open plains.
So I jumped into my Thunderbird, in pursuit of my 
vision quest. 
It was a Walt Disney Pocahontus, my Barbie doll 
Indian Princess. 
But going the other way in a Pontiac she drove 
past me.
Her father, the Grand Chief was on my tail in his 
Cherokee. 
He ran me off the road, there was nothing I could 

say. 
Along came a Winnabago on the pow wow 
highway. 
With a little hope and good luck on my side.
They were going my way so I hitched a ride.
I also hoped I'd happen upon her down the road. 
But the Trickster was at the wheel, everything 
was on hold.
They took a detour to see a few ball games 
along 
the way. 
"The Atlanta Braves are up against the Red 
Skins" 
again I didn't have a say.
"While we're at it", I added, "let's get the 
Cleveland Indians 
and the Kansas City Chiefs and go up to Indiana to watch the 
Black Hawks chase the Buffalo Sabers down 
across the plains." 
We might just meet up with my Indian maiden 
wearing a Black Robe, 
dancing with wolves, buffalo or some cowboy full 
of bull. 
But luck wasn't quit on my side, she would not be 
my bride, at least that day. 
So we went to the Indianapolis 500 
then to the Indian world series 
chopping, scalping all the way.
I didn't ever find my maiden fair with long black 
hair but that was okay, 
cause the Braves and the Red Skins were 
cousins to the Chiefs and Indians their way 
and second cousins twice removed to the Black 
Hawks up my way. 
Now every summer you can see them, they all 
mount their ponies; 
Pintos and Pontiac, Cherokees and Cheyennes, 
Cougars and Comanches, 
Thunderbirds and Sunbirds, Mustangs and 
Motorcycles (Indian)
and they head south to the open plains for a 
Plymouth Sundance with its Shadow.
As for me I don't speak my mother's tongue, she 
speaks Ojibwa. 
She speaks with a forked tongue when she is 
Bokshkaa and can't go to the Bingo. 
With me the youngest of her tribe of seven 
children, the low man on the totem pole, 
I got to help her out with $hoonya. 
Growing up with seven brothers and sisters there 
was always too many chiefs 
and not enough Indians. Someone were always 
on the war path wanting to scalp the other. 
But we'd bury the hatchet when mom won big at 
the bingo cause we're blood, 
we're Anishnaabe, kind beings, real Indian 
givers, 
we share. Want some? 

©WRM