The Ballad of Ira Hayes

<br>Gather round you people and a story I will tell<br><br>About a brave young indian you should remember well<br><br>From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band<br><br>They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land<br><br>Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed<br><br>Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed<br><br>Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds<br><br>But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war<br><br>Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.<br><br><br><br>They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men<br><br>But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again<br><br>And when the fight was over and the old glory raised<br><br>One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.<br><br><br><br>Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land<br><br>He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand<br><br>But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance<br><br>And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians<br><br>Dance<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.<br><br><br><br>And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home<br><br>They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone<br><br>He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save<br><br>Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war<br><br>Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.<br><br><br><br>Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry<br><br>And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died<br><br>Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war<br><br>Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore<br><br>Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.