Big Chief \ Little Jones ã R. Leschen (26 May 2006)

Beyond the mist-bound mountain tops to the sun-baked cattle creeks,

We bounded for glory like priests in faded jeans,

We searched for satisfaction and for something in between,

Sheets of gold coast memories and incoherent dreams.

Up south near Los Alamos the Big Chief cleared his eyes,

He sought through the heavens and he summoned from the skies,

A spell from ancient fathers an ice-age remedy,

Protect us from thy enemy who were forming in the east.

Thanks for the leg but we need a helping hand,

We called on all our spirits at least that was a plan,

Our slingshots and bowstrings are no match for guns and fire,

Any future plans depend on who we con or hire.

Jones and I with sentiment both said we’d contribute,

We’ll hitch the horses to the shed just tell us the best route.

We’ll hide among the rocks and stones and the clustered cactus trees,

The first sign of the henchmen we’ll come running like the breeze.

The All Kings Court and Eagle Lords blew into town,

Big Chief Little Jones and me were huddled in the crowd,

At 9:00 we fired our lot the streets were turned to blood,

‘Neath the shadow of the barber shop was Big Chief wiped out cold.

Jones was hit and I merely missed a rocket to my side,

The gunners had outnumbered us two-fold maybe five,

We aimed out passed Old Peters shop to a panoramic scene,

Once again our knees got skinned get the horses and run free.

At times we laugh but mostly cry when we contemplate and watch,

That some men act like puppets and they seem so out of touch,

I care less for careless actions and devils in disguise,

So we withdrew our pistols and made for separate skies.

We kept close to the desert road in the night our bodies froze,

Slipped into a time machine our minds linked by dreams.

He kissed the dust the old Chief lost his spirit’s wild and free,

His box of blackened ashes consigned to history.