I drove my Plymouth across to Alcatraz to see
if it could rock.
I mean, the only thing to do with such a sitting duck
is baste and roast it 'til it cries
Bury yr wounded knee in sweetened cranberry sauce
and count the dimpled Mayflowers chasing shad in the
shallows of Palm Beach.
This is your Squanto, here in the heartland of Kansas
ripening like indian corn in the dungeons of Leavenworth:
His name is Leonard Peltier.
Give thanks that your feast has yet to consume him entirely.
Give thanks that his prayers echo in canyons far beyond your
Give thanks that the wild rice of his spirit may yet forgive and
feed your children something more than guilty pleasure.
Take that quill out of your cap and sign his walking papers:
You can call it justice
-I call it stale macaroni.