Poor ol' Kaw-liga, he never got a kiss.
Poor ol' Kaw-liga, he don't know what he missed.
Is it any wonder that his face is red?
Kaw-liga, that poor ol' wooden head.
He always wore his Sunday feathers and held a tomahawk.
The maiden wore her beads and braids and hoped some day he'd talk.
Kaw-liga, too stubborn to ever show a sign,
Because his heart was made of knotty pine.
Kaw-liga was a lonely Indian, never went nowhere.
His heart was set on the Indian maid with the coal black hair.
Kaw-liga just stood there and never let it show,
So she could never answer "yes" or "no."
And then one day a wealthy customer bought the Indian maid,
And took her, oh, so far away, but ol' Kaw-liga stayed.
Kaw-liga just stands there as lonely as can be,
And wishes he was still an old pine tree.