C F
Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes
C
Call him drunken Ira Hayes;
F
He won’t answer any more,
G
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Indian
C
Nor the Marine that went to war.

F
Gather round me people, and a story I will tell
G C
About a brave young Indian, you all should remember well.

From the land of the Pima Indian, a proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley, down in Arizona land.
Down the ditches for a thousand years the water grew Ira’s peoples’ crops
‘Til the white man stole the water rights and the sparklin’ water stopped.
Now Ira’s folks were hungry and their land grew crops of weed
Then when war came, Ira volunteered and forgot the white man’s greed.
Chorus

Well, there they battled up Iwo Jima hill, all two hundred and fifty men,
But only twenty-seven lived - to walk back down again.
Now, when the fightin’ was over and Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Well, Ira returned a hero celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; and everybody shook his hand,
But he was just a Pima Indian--no water, no crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what Ira had done and when did the Indians dance?
Chorus

Well, then Ira started drinkin’ hard; jail was often his home
And they’d let him raise the flag and lower it, like you’d throw a dog a bone!
Well, he died drunk one mornin’ in the land he fought to save,
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin’ thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died.