Now That We Are Poor, We Are

I Will Remain What I Am Until I Die, A Hunter, And When There Are No Buffalo Or Other Game I Will Send My Children To Hunt And Live On Prairie, For Where An Indian Is Shut Up In One Place His Body Becomes Weak.

I Have Killed, Robbed, And Injured Too Many White Men To Believe In A Good Peace. They Are Medicine, And I Would Eventually Die A Lingering Death. I Had Rather Die On The Field Of Battle. Look At Me, See If I Am Poor, Or My People Either. The Whites May Get Me At Last, As You Say, But I Will Have Good Times Till Then. You Are Fools To Make Yourselves Slaves To A Piece Of Fat Bacon, Some Hard-tack, And A Little Sugar And Coffee.

You Think I Am A Fool, But You Are A Greater Fool Than I Am.

I Know Great Spirit Is Looking Down Upon Me From Above, And Will Hear What I Say.

They Want Us To Give Up Another Chunk Of Our Tribal Land. This Is Not The First Time Or The Last Time.