The Ballad of Ira Hayes

Gather round you people and a story I will tell

About a brave young Indian you should remember well

From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band

They farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land

Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed

'Til the white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed

Now Ira's folks were hungry and their farms when crops of weeds

But when war came he volunteers and forgot the white man's greed

Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Yes, call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

They started up Iwo Jima Hill, 250 men

But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again

And when the fight was over and the old glory raised

One of the men who held it high was the Indian Ira Hayes

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Now Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land

He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian, no money crops, no chance

And at home nobody cared what Ira had done, and the wind did the Indian's Dance

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

And Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home

They let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone

He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save

Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Yes, call him, drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry

And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war

Call him, drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war