|
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 |
|
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed |
|
Now Ira's folks were hungry and their farms wene 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 |
|
Yes, 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 |
|
Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore |
|
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war. |
