This is a poem by Saul Bellow. Not sure if it has a title.
“Mice hide when hawks are high;
Hawks shy from airplanes;
Planes dread the ack-ack-ack;
Each one fears somebody.
Only the heedless lions
Under the Booloo tree
Snooze in each other’s arms
After their lunch of blood –
I call that living good!”
We will not have the wagons which make a noise
In the hunting grounds of the buffalo.
If the palefaces come further into our lands
There will be the scalps of your brethren in the wigwams of the Cheyennes.
I have spoken.
Accursed be the race that has seized on our country
And made women of our warriors.
Our fathers from their tombs reproach us as slaves and cowards.
I hear them now in the wailing winds;
The spirits of the mighty dead complain.
Their tears drop from the wailing skies.
Let the white race perish.
They seize your land, they corrupt your women,
They trample on the ashes of your dead!
Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven.