Poem by Mary Ann Pont
Copyright © 1995 Pont
While grazin' quietly a man I see,
so I watch him as he watches me,
the question bein' who's gonna flee.
I guess he will 'cuz I'm that big,
but I can't stand his feathered wig,
so I'll just blow me lots of snot,
and watch his pony spook a lot.
Well it bucks to the West lands in the East,
for I the buffalo am a mighty beast,
brown and hairy but do I care,
these northern plains I will not share.
But go young Indian do not fear,
as your painted pony starts to rear,
I shall let you live to tell the tale,
brave young Warrior who's face is pale.
As the sunset fades over mountains yonder,
I can't help but to look and wonder,
why the painted pony stands quiet and proud,
beneath western skies without a cloud.
But then I see in the Warrior's eyes,
sad tears have filled,
for I the buffalo shall be killed.