Ishi was the last of his people in a world gone mad;
the gold rush of forty nine had sealed their fate plenty bad.
He was the last, the only one, stumbling in abject grief;
tribal genocide, in his person, confounded belief.
That the American way of life is built on such tragedy,
is more than enough to make a feeling man giddy.
We swagger on to manifest our infernal destiny:
to rape and pillage this land until nature mutinies.
Modern times sanitizes our shit but poisons our water;
we bury the stink but swallow to our slow slaughter.
Outer space is the last frontier for the demented Texan,
until the clutter of orbiting rubbish smashes lexan.
Ishi means man and he found himself in a strange orbit:
to make friends with a homicidal race from a weird planet.
No tears fall from Darvish’s face about the fate of tribal life:
spirit warriors take birth again and again in renewed strife!
