Poem: The Last Bison


Once I ruled the Northern plains,
my clan roamed free and wild,
the lush Dakotas were my home,
the gods were on my side.

Every leafy shrub was mine,
every blade of grass,
every creature trembled when
a herd of bison passed.

My family has been slaughtered
for food, for prize, for fun,
of all the kings that roamed the earth
I’m now the only one.

Am I now a laughing stock?
The object of your pity?
A weakling of the prairies, while
you prosper in the city?

And who was it that killed my clan?
Let’s set the record straight:
that bastard son of Europe’s womb —
the proud United States.

“That happened many years ago,”
they argue in defence,
“now we’ll try and save you,”
they utter with pretence.

But what astounds me chiefly is
the self-appointed jury
that chooses not to recognise
the reason for my fury.

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