Over arid hills they come
from miles away, to spend a day
with cash and cameras, they meander along.
Over arid hills they come.
The buses stop and stay awhile,
unloading their blind-eyed crew
in unkempt grass that collects no dew.
Over arid hills they come.
The cameras flash and strike a view
of land that once was bathed in blood-
where innocents met a horrific end,
killed by uniform in December mud.
Give back the Rushmores, Libertys
of the many, from the few,
but it will never heal the Wounded Knee
and give it life anew.
