There were seven little Indians Living in a brick house on Central Avenue Gathered 'round their daddy Tellin' stories in the living room From a slightly unrealistic point of view Momma was off yonder in the kitchen somewhere Boiling up some hot water for them to all get up to their necks in The seven little Indians new If the rest of the tribe ever scrutinized their household Somehow it would not pass inspection The big chief railed on And spun his tales of brave conquest About the moving of his little band Up to Alaska Where the caribou run free See he had been there putting in telephone lines For the army during World War II Even brought back a picture of a frozen mastodon For the little Indians to see And some mukluks and some sealskin gloves And a coat with beads around the collar His wife kept them in the mothballs Underneath the Hudson Bays And every once and a while he'd get all wound up With one of his stories, he'd put them all on And dance around in that blue TV light Like it was some campfire blazing away Well he stamped and he hollered But he could not stay warm in that living room And even the seven little Indians could feel the chill And although everything always worked Out for the better in all of his stories In that old brick house it always felt like Something was movin' in for the kill Blazing like a trail Shot through the eyes of the seven little Indians Blazing like the sheets of light dancing up in the sky Up above Anchorage Blazing like a star shot down to the ground Back home again in Indiana Now it finally got so quiet you could hear a pin drop They started dropping like flies The oldest little Indian got sick and vTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
