Oh Sunny of the painted word,
Yet not before your name I’ve heard,
And then, as if perhaps perchance
I read of Pawnee Indian chants,
Saw painting of a tiny child,
A native of Red Indians wild,
Then in my breast my heart did pound,
For I could hear the war drums sound;
I knew that in my life before,
I’d fought in this such futile war,
Had seen the evil done by whites,
Who killed as if was their rights;
So let us hang our heads in shame,
For WE, must also share the blame.
