“When they were little,
They always played Indians,
And it was the only time they ever felt free.
No one explained how wrong it was to
Be a rich little boy playing Indians,
They told them there was something better to be.
And they’d ask about the culture,
No disrespect intended,
And the many years between them
And the wisdom they’d beheaded
And they understood,
One day in June,
Why it was wrong to let these ideals bloom.
And the boys turned to their fathers
And the fathers before them and asked
All in all, can it be good again?”