Coyot', Coyotee-ee-ee!
What have they done?
My little brother, where...
where do you run?
They strychinined the mountains,
they strychnined the plains
My little brother, the coyote,
won't come back again.
When you hear him singing,
the few that are left,
He's warning the human race
of his death.
Don't poison the mesas,
don't poison the sky,
Or you won't be back;
little brother, goodbye.
There will be no one to listen,
and no one to sing,
And never and never
will there be spring.
Coyot', Coyotee-ee-ee!
What have they done?
My little brother, where...
where do you run?