(Alright! Here's a little intro!)

I want to throw up in my face.
My whole life is a Sunday
afternoon.
Women are funny,
they're almost like people,
sweet little suffragettes-
something to eat,
something to cook,
something to freeze.
The mail slows
and the phone calls
drop off completely,
like the moon
lose herself
once a month.

The Indians are coming back in derailed rollercoaster cars,
polka dots and earrings, their Mohawks all blown back by the wind,
a foreign flash,
brighter than white lighting,
don't sweat it sleeping foot,
for the white man is all but extinct.
Come and burn the worship dresses of ladies and the lord's wardrobe,
ride on back into the homesteader's village slinging arrows, toss your tomahawks,
turn and join the ranks of the empowered,
turn and join the ranks of the empowered and the vicious.
Don't make that fish face, bitch,
from your fish tank,
let's go and find a tapedeck and make love to buddy holly.
Aren't you in the know, the Navajos approach the fort
as we speak
and you are dog meat,
you my darling are dog meat.