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Aurora borealis, the icy sky at night,
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paddles cut the water in a long and hurried flight,
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from the white man to the fields of green,
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in the homeland we've never seen.
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They killed us in our tepee, they cut our women down,
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they might have left some babies cryin' on the ground,
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but the firesticks and the wagons come,
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and the night falls on the setting sun.
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They massacred the buffalo, Kitty corner from the bank,
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taxis run across my feet and my eyes have turned to blanks,
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in my little box at the top of the stairs,
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with my Indian rug and a pipe to share.
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I wish I was a trapper, I would give a thousand pelts
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to sleep with Pocahontas and find out how she felt,
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in the mornin' on the fields of green,
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in the homeland we've never seen.
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And maybe Marlon Brando will be there by the fire,
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we'll sit and talk about Hollywood and the good things there for hire,
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like the Astrodome and the first tepee,
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Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me,
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Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me.
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Pocahontas.
Written by Neil Young