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Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleedingGhosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.Me and my -ah- mother and father - and aGrandmother and a grandfather - were driving throughThe desert, at dawn, and a truck load of indianWorkers had either hit another car, or just - I don'tKnow what happened - but there were indians scatteredAll over the highway, bleeding to death.So the car pulls up and stops. that was the first timeI tasted fear. I musta' been about four - like a child isLike a flower, his head is just floating in theBreeze, man.The reaction I get now thinking about it, lookingBack - is that the souls of the ghosts of those deadIndians...maybe one or two of 'em...were justRunning around freaking out, and just leaped into mySoul. and they're still in there.Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleedingGhosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.Blood in the streets in the town of new havenBlood stains the roofs and the palm trees of veniceBlood in my love in the terrible summerBloody red sun of phantastic l.a.Blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingersBlood will be born in the birth if a nationBlood is the rose of mysterious unionBlood on the rise, it's following me.Indian, indian what did you die for? Indian says, nothing at all.