Oklahoma

All of the indians are dead
(A good indian is a dead Indian)
Or riding in motor cars,
(The oil lands, you know, they're all rich)
Smoke smarts my eyes,
Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dung
Smoke grey in the teepee-
(Or is it myopic trachoma?)

The prairies are long,
The moon rises,
Ponies
Drag at their pickets.
The grass has gone brown in the summer-
(Or is the hay crop failing?)

Pull an arrow out,
If you break it
The would closes.
Salt is good too
And wood ashes.
Pounding it throbs in the night-
(Or is it the gonorrhea?)