Letras
Gather 'round me people and a story I will tell
'Bout a brave young Indian lad you should remember well
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land
Down the ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
'Til the white man stole their water
Rights and the running water hushed
Ira's folks was hungry, the fields grew thick with weeds
But when war came, Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey-drinking Indian or Marine who went to war
Well they battled up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again
And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised
Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey-drinking Indian or Marine who went to war
Well Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he's just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance
And nobody cared what Ira had did and when do the Indians dance
Well Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it
Just like you'd throw a dog a bone
And Ira died drunk early one morning
All alone in the land he'd fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was a grave for Ira Hayes
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey-drinking Indian or Marine who went to war
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land still is dry
And his ghost, well it's lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey-drinking Indian or Marine who went to war