This is a number which Bernie and I have just written, fresh off the presses, folks.We wrote it when we went back after our last visit.And Bernie had been to an Indian reservation, and he'd written a song about the Indians.And we'd just done it. It's not been recorded or anything.It's just about to be bootlegged, probably.But never mind. There's a method in our madness, I tell you.It's called Indian Sunset, and it's very long.So if you'd like to go to the toilet now, you're quite welcome.It's my note, you see.As I awoke this evening with the smell of wood smoke clingingLike a gentle cobweb hanging upon a painted teepeeOh, I went to see my chieftain with my wall ants and my womanFor he told us that the yellow moon would very soon be leavingOh, this I can't believe I saidI won't believe our warlord's deadOh, he would not leave the chosen ones to the buzzards and the soldiers' gunsOh, great father of the Iroquois, ever since I was youngI've read the writing of the smoke and breastfed on the sound of drumsI've learned to hurl a tomahawk and ride a painted pony wildTo run the gauntlet of the Sioux to make a chieftain's daughter mineAnd now you ask that I should watch the red man's race be slowly crushedWhat kind of words are these to hear from yellow dog whom white men feed?pianopianoI take only what is mine, LordMy pony, my squaw, and my childI can't stay to see you dieAlong with my tribe's prideI go to search for the yellow moon and the fathers of our sonsWhere the red sun sinks and the hills of gold and the healing waters runpianoTrembling down the prairie roadsLeaving hoof tracks in the sandThose who wish to follow meAre welcome with my handsI heard from passing renegadesGeronimo was deadHe'd been laying down his weaponsWhen they filled him full of leadpianopiano