Ballad of Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor, the Marine that went to war

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
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
And forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian

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 Old Glory raised
Among the men that held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor, the Marine that went to war

Ira Hayes returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done

Ira started drinkin' hard
Jail was often his home
There, they'd let him raise a flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog a bone

Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian