There was an Indian tale,
About the Indian sap,
Delicately wounded, delicately jabbed,
precariously tender, ostentatious sad
She was the Indian child of doom,
Her poetry was bitter and bad.

She wrote poems about the famine,
the *** of the crazy and the kind,
Often wrote about dreamers and pirates
And of the ill of the mind

Years and years have gone through,
She has yearned for the Odyssey of the great,
But all she wrote was the depression,
the depth, the sorrows and the hate.

She had written about the men
She had not known about,
She forgot their names, Mike or Rick
Or about the one that was stout

Well, what about the one that had hurt you,
Oh wait, all of them did,
This wasn't a circus or a mayhem
Or a story or a gist

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
Till she could write no more
She realized she never knew herself
She was alone on the dance floor.