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The paradoxes of the Little Big Horn
A crowded and scarred battlefield
So much 'custard' now,
Where flocked tourists eat snow cones
And advertise sorrow before the tombs
Of the hapless white invaders
And their one night stand,
While a disgruntled tourist shoots
His family members
With a rigid look behind his Cannon lens
After his wife leaves him
With the Indian history signs;
Next to the bone-withered tombstones
Wedged lopsided, un-dentist like on the grassy slope,
A barren breast of parked care
Where alien whites
In history's coffin
Lie buried with native reds –
Of the 90% lost in the last 300 years
Invasive disease and bountiless land lust;
Not that the indigenous are gentler to their own;
On that gardened field his wife and he soon trip
Harsh words blasting over flashy grave signs,
Their child alone among the hopeful murals
In this last stand,
Where they shoot from the lips.
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