The Ballad of Ira Hayes (Bear's Sonic Journals: Live At The Carousel Ballroom, April 24 1968)

Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinking Indian
Or the marine that went to war

Gather 'round me people
There's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian
That we should remember well
From the tribe of the Pima Indian
A proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley
In Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The waters grew Ira's people's crops
'Til the white man stole their water rights
And the sparkling water stopped
Now, Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
And when war came, Ira volunteered
Forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinking Indian
Or the marine that went to war

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived
To fight back down again
And when that fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among 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 that went to war

Ira Hayes returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored
Everybody shook his hand
But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crop, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when do the Indians dance

Then Ira started drinking hard
Jail was often his home
There, they let him raise the flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water and a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinking Indian
Or the marine that went to war

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