On my grandfather’s farm, a rock sits alone
With an Indian’s face carved into the stone.
From around this tomb, grandpa dug up the bones,
Of some old, old people that once called our land home.
Maybe they were Shawnee, maybe Kaskaskia
From a time before they shrank into Indiana.
When we settled this land, we bred them out of existence,
And killed all the ones who rose up in resistance.
But, irony’s rich, like a finely aged jade.
Cause just as that Indian’s face starts to fade
The settlers are beginning to feel that same squeeze
Of being forced out that we gave the Shawnee.
The coal mines succumbed to a state-wide attack,
And farms are sold cheap to pay property tax.
And just like the Indians, it seems we’ll meet the same fate,
As this land turns into the Windy City’s State.
As that chiseled war bonnet fades, down to its last feather
May my own stone ever chip, may it ever weather
Yes, just like the Indian, let my grave be destroyed,
But may my bones ever rest in Southern Illinois.
Jace Slone ‘27 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences He can be reached at j.d.slone@wustl.edu.