Classic Poem

On the sable wall your great skull gleams,
A regal ornament;
A relic of weathered bone and horn,
Once lord of a continent.

The war-lord, yea, of a countless host,
But gone is your kingly sway;
For never again will you head the herd
In the spring when the young calves play.

All bleached with the merciless sun and rain
Of many and many a day,
You're all that is left to tell the tale
How the black lines passed this way.