In southwest wilds long years ago
The sound that chilled the people so
With thoughts of terror, death and woe
Was this dread name -- Geronimo.
He loathed both Mexican and white
And blamed them for his people's plight.
And vowing all these wrongs he'd right
He pledged to wage and endless fight.
With millions spent to have him caught
By U.S. troops his capture sought.
The way this crafty demon fought
Would bring their efforts all to naught.
He'd skip across the rugged land
While followed by his little band
Of loyal friends always at hand
To raid and plunder on command.
Their horses, although seldom shod,
Were tough, and o'er the rocks they'd trod.
And though they longed for turf and sod
On mountain slopes they had to plod.
High on a peak in one such flight
He turned to find if he could sight
Pursuers that he thought just might
Be from the raid the previous night.
His fierce eyes raked the scene below
And there he spied the hated foe.
A scathing oath he muttered low
Then through clenched teeth he hissed, "Let's go."
His faithful squaw was great with child
And should have had a pace more mild.
Yet knowing she might be reviled
She rode beside her mate so wild.
Then in a more secluded spot
She bore a handsome black-eyed tot,
And minutes later on the trot
Astride her horse, she murmured not.
Oft times in custody but still
Each time was of his own free will.
He'd slip in from a nearby hill
When he was ready, not until.
Though prison walls he came to know
Ere it was time for him to go.
The men who sought will always know
They never caught Geronimo.