There's an Indian standing on my mother's front lawn
She wants to shoot
Ragged and colorful, dirty and wild
She can tell from his eyes that something is wrong
She's getting worried 'bout her roses and flax
"Call the police!" He looks sullen and strong
What would you do with someone so free
Out on your suburban lawn?
Someone so free, someone so free
I want the Indian to be a friend unto me
They appeared in my neighborhood from out of the West
They let out a whoop
Riding their horses with lances and bows
Wrecking up my garden, then fleeing like crows
I've read the history between them and us
And I swear to the sun, I can't stand what was done
But I never ordered no Wounded Knee
So why do they do this to me?
Someone so free, someone so free
Why can't the Indian be a friend unto me?
Now that most Indians are dead
We can see that the Indians were good
We can read about their cultures
Keep a few on as pets
And long for their brotherhood
We never really trusted what was wild and free
But I sure wish the Indian
Could be a good friend to me
Someone so free
Someone so free
Pastiche - vocals and vocal arrangement; Bruce Unsworth - alto, tenor and baritone saxophones; Tom Hassett - cymbal; Diesel Cats - electric guitar.
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