A High Plains drifter
A hitchhiker on gleaming white U.S. 1
An American icon with a Stetson and a Marlboro
Not a cent in his pocket and shit for brains
But he possesses a chiseled chin and a dream
Riches or bust
One more solo in an album of wind songs
Dakota knows all about dust to dust
And although the Missouri awaits its baptism, Dakota is stubborn as hell
It’s the devil with its boots on
Reagan didn’t come from here but he lives here now
Though John Wayne is dead and Black Elk has already spoken
Dakota still ships its wealth East and its hopes West
There is nothing left to eat for the serfs who remain
The starving cannot imagine
The Corps of Engineers and the Missouri River Master Manual
High priests and their holy book, sprinkling federal irreverence under a mean August sun
West River is scattered and gone, all because of the Ghost Dancers and the dirt they kicked up for Sitting Bull
Bear Butte, Harney Peak, Pine Ridge, steeples on the roof of the grassland
Prayer houses for the poor
Nobody wants to admit it, but the party is over
Someone just needs to pick up the trash
But it won’t be that hitchhiker on U.S. 1