Away in the hills of the Okanagan 
Lived an Indian tribe in its pointed wigwams,
A tribe that had for its chief a man                                                           
Who kept food in the food pots, peace in the clans,
Who had sturdy legs, though he wasn’t very tall,
And as a hunter no one beat him from the spring to the fall
He’d been a good chief, but now whispers began
He was getting too old to be head of the clan
He had wrinkle marks from his toes to his chin,
Could he keep enemies out but food within?
His muscles were weak, his tummy round,
He no longer slept like a brave on the ground,
But on a buffalo robe, warm and snug,
Like a warm little bug in a snug little rug
He heard the whispers but he just gave a shrug,
For he was chief of the proud-hearted, fast-running, bright-feathered, brave-hunting Native People,
Boom boom boom boom       
Boom boom boom boom
Boom boom boom boom
Boom boom boom boom