When I was young and naive,
A curious little boy
I loved to run and play
When once I found this coin.
It was old and tarnished
But an image could be made out
It was a stoic Indian chief
Full of pride and clout.
I looked at him and said
“I wonder who this is?”
So I looked him up in a book
And this is what it said:
“The noble savage roams about
well trained in the arts of war,
He knows his plants and animals
and is versed in ancient lore.”
This person peaked my interest,
I desperately wanted to be like him.
I told my friends and they agreed;
We formed our tribe upon this whim.
Each day as the clock stroked three,
We’d run off in the woods.
Decked out in our regalia
We’d do everything we could
We practiced with arrows every day
Till our fingers became quite numb.
We mapped the woods of Mother Earth
And knew the time had come.
A warrior cannot exist
If he cannot make war.
So, we found an enemy to play against,,
We beat them and our spirits soared.
When the enemy had been subdued
We could do nothing but pretend.
Little did we warriors know
This beginning was our very end.
We’d make up games and run around,
We played in the woods till it was cold.
When spring came and the sun shined through,
Our routine quickly became old.
For here was a new enemy,
Whom we’d never encountered before.
They liked us but they thought our life
Was a wee bit immature
We took off the feathers and dropped our axe,
We washed paint off our face.
These beings, these women, these beautiful creatures,
Had put us in our place.
We were young boys but not for long,
Each day we were becoming men.
The girls transformed us into adults,
We could never play like Indians again.
As I grew up into a man,
I forgot my days near the streams.
But now, more mature, I often look back
On my boyish desires and dreams.