A banner year 1864, don't like the red man anymore, can't have them taking up good land. Give them a token flag, trade pipes and shake some hands, tell them the white stripes stand for peace. Say if they raise red white and blue, bluecoats will never shoot at you, but stripes will lose their sheen. Black Kettle was their chief, he only wanted peace, under the flag...a massacre at Sand Creek.
Wave your flag. Salivate. Stirring feelings of pride and hate. A peace of cloth can't hold your faith.
No flag flies, no banner waves, see the empty pole above his empty grave. No one knows, where he lies, and no one knows why he had to die.
A banner year 1868, a bitter end a twist of fate. Maps won't hold this melanoma, blurry part of Oklahoma, where Custer shot and killed Black Kettle.
A promise is a promise, a judge of character. His banner over me is love.