Oh give me a home. Where the buffalo roam. And the death of a race is a game. Where seldom is heard. A peacable word. From the white trash. Who killed as they came. Though these words dig deep. They offer no relief. God save the queen. I am an indian chief. There is a secret I keep. It's called the talking leaf. And you better believe. That he speaks his beliefs. Like a rock that bleeds. A sea of grief. My talking leaf speaks of. A wounded knee creek. American ghost dance.... A new man who is with old ways. He walks the streets of life. But he's in chains. I'm alive he cried. I can feel the flame. Burning red inside. I am an indian brave. There is a memory. That lives in my blood. Of the brand you laid. On all you touched. But the burning flame. Turns to burning pain. Genuine genocide. And that's truly insane. So like a wild hurricane. I will dance on the grave. Of my race that died. When it should have been saved. American ghost dance...