Kawliga, was a wooden Indian standing by the door
He fell in love with an Indian maid over in the antique store
Kawliga just stood there and never let it show
So she could never answer yes or no
He always wore his Sunday feathers and held a tomahawk
Poor ol' kawliga, he never got a kiss
Poor ol' Kawliga, he don't know what he missed
Is it any wonder that his face is red
Kawliga, that poor ol' wooden head
Kawliga, was a lonely Indian never went nowhere