Hovering over your head

is the ghost of your

great-great-great grandfather.

His ghost is totally pissed off.

It is dancing and brooding

around your future grave.

It is dancing and fuming

over your wretched

life.

Know the shame of his ghost.

His shame is the only life you know.

Disease, poverty and booze have

become your spiritual rites.

And your great-great-great grandfather's

tears flood the streams and rivers and

the land where he once hunted

deer and elk,

where he remained a warrior,

despite overwhelming hordes of

white demon oppressors.