Crazy Horse, Digger, And Me

On Thunder Mountain
in South Dakota land
by the sculptors' hand
rises a shirtless brown man.
Astride a white stallion,
He points to the horizon
where he and his dead
now lie buried.
Maybe he and his horse
really were crazy
to go against the army
and Custer's 7th Calvary.
A win in the greasy grass
on the shores of Little Big Horn
still didn't keep your spirit free.
Ride with the wind Crazy Horse.

On a dirt poor farm,
in my mind's land
twenty years ago to the day,
rises a mountain sized man.
Astride the morgan horse,
he rides in the rodeo,
he points to the ribbons
where they hang on his saddle-horn.
Now his hair is getting gray,
and he ain't really that big
to an adult,
but a kid's gotta have his hero
that goes against the grain.
Being married and raising a baby
didn't keep his spirit from running free.
Ride with the wind Digger.

On the flightline
on the 21st day of May,
stands a pint sized man,
torque wrench and wipe rag in hand.
Fourteen years ago today,
he raised his right hand.
"I state your name."
Solemnly serving and all
spent time watching sky scrapers fall.
A tear in his eye,
watched friends march off to die.
He points to bombs painted
on an aged B-52 nose.
He launched strike missions
where they dropped those.
Being tired and dirty doesn't keep him
from praising the land of the free.
Where he still rides with the wind.