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 In dians
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
v