There were seven little Indians

Living in a brick house on

Central Avenue

Gathered 'round their daddy

Tellin' stories in the living room

From a slightly unrealistic point of view

Momma was off yonder in the kitchen somewhere

Boiling up some hot water for them to all get up to their necks in

The seven little Indians new

If the rest of the tribe ever scrutinized their household

Somehow it would not pass inspection

The big chief railed on

And spun his tales of brave conquest

About the moving of his little band

Up to Alaska

Where the caribou run free

See he had been there putting in telephone lines

For the army during World War II

Even brought back a picture of a frozen mastodon

For the little Indians to see

And some mukluks and some sealskin gloves

And a coat with beads around the collar

His wife kept them in the mothballs

Underneath the Hudson Bays

And every once and a while he'd get all wound up

With one of his stories, he'd put them all on

And dance around in that blue TV light

Like it was some campfire blazing away

Well he stamped and he hollered

But he could not stay warm in that living room

And even the seven little Indians could feel the chill

And although everything always worked

Out for the better in all of his stories

In that old brick house it always felt like

Something was movin' in for the kill

Blazing like a trail

Shot through the eyes of the seven little Indians

Blazing like the sheets of light dancing up in the sky

Up above Anchorage

Blazing like a star shot down to the ground

Back home again in Indiana

Now it finally got so quiet you could hear a pin drop

They started dropping like flies

The oldest little Indian got sick and v