Ballad of Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore Not that whiskey drinking Indian, or the Marine who went to war Come gather 'round me people, and a story I will tell About a brave young Indian, you should remember well From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band That farmed the Phoenix valley, in the Arizona land Down their ditches for a thousand years, the sparkling water rushed Till the Whiteman stole their water Rights, and the running water hushed Well, Ira's folks was hungry, and their farms grew crops of weeds But when war came, he volunteered and forgot the Whiteman's greed They battled up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty men But only twenty-seven lived, to walk back down again And after the fight was over, and Old Glory raised Among the men who held her high, was the Indian, Ira Hayes Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land He was wined, and speeched, and honored, everybody shook his hand But he's just a Pima Indian, no water, no crops, no chance Back home nobody cared what Ira had Done, and when do the Indians dance? Well, Ira he started drinking hard, jail often was his home They'd let him raise the flag there and Lower it, like you'd throw a dog a bone He died drunk early one morning, All alone in the land he'd fought to save Two inches of water in lonely ditch, was a grave, for Ira Hayes Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry And his ghost is lying thirsty, in the ditch where Ira died