This Land is My Land
kikes and Micks
(don't forget the krauts and deggos, too)
live on land that belongs to you.
If your skin is red,
you're better off dead
than deal with this sordid affair.
No one told you caveat venditor, “Let the seller beware.”
You trusted the limeys and frogs to boot:
they used that foot to grind you to soot.
Ashes and soot of once-proud nations:
now there's strife in tribal relations.
Anima spirits, totems, and tools:
the white man has played you for fools.
Soon, painted faces gather in band,
proudly declaring, “This land is my land.”
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Author's Note
I’m in no way qualified to write this poem, as I am not a Native American. I do, however, believe that the natives of North America have been dealt one of the worst hands in history. Their systematic slaughter by waves of white immigrants has been hollowed out of the history books and replaced with the “Maize; you call it ‘corn’” bs we get fed in grade school.
I apologize if some of the language I’ve used offends you. It’s my hope that, by using such abrasive terms, I’ll get your attention and you’ll think about what it means to be any color but red in America.
For the record, I do not advocate a native uprising, but Indians deserve better than casinos and firewater.
Other stories by Darius McCaskey
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