Ballad Of Ira Hayes

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Come gather 'round me, people, a story I'd like to tell
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About a brave young Indian, that you should remember well
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From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and noble band
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Who farmed the Phoenix Valley, down in Arizona land

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Down their ditches for ten thousand years the sparkling waters rushed
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Then the White Man stole the water rights, and all the running waters hushed
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Ira's folks go hungry, their farms grow crops of weeds
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When war came, Ira volunteered; forgot the White Man's greed

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Call him drunken' Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey drinking Indian, the Marine that went to war

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They battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two-hundred and fifty men
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Only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again
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When that fight was over, when Old Glory raised
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Among the men that held Her high was the Indian, Ira Hayes

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Well Ira came back a hero, he was celebrated throughout the land
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He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
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But he was just a Pima Indian; had no money, no home, no chance
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In Arizona no one cared what Ira had done; just "When do the Indians dance?"

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So Ira started drinkin' hard, jail was often his home
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They let him raise the flag and lower it, like you'd throw a dog a bone
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Well he died drunk early one morning, all alone in this land he'd fought to save
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Two inches of water in a lonesome ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes

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Call him drunken' Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey drinking Indian, the Marine that went to war

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Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
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And his ghost is lyin' thirsty inside the ditch where Ira died

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