God Made Me An Indian.

I Have Killed, Robbed, And Injured Too Many White Men To Believe In A Good Peace.

As Individual Fingers We Can Easily Be Broken, But All Together We Make A Mighty Fist.

Is It Wrong For Me To Love My Own? Is It Wicked For Me Because My Skin Is Red? Because I Am Sioux? Because I Was Born Where My Father Lived? Because I Would Die For My People And My Country?

There Are Things They Tell Us That Sound Good To Hear, But When They Have Accomplished Their Purpose They Will Go Home And Will Not Try To Fulfill Our Agreements With Them.

What White Woman, However Lonely, Was Ever Captive Or Insulted By Me? Yet They Say I Am A Bad Indian.