(Peter La Farge)

« © '63 Edward B.Marks Music »

Ira Hayes Ira Hayes call him drunken Ira Hayes he won't answer anymore

Not the whiskey drinking Indian nor the marine that went to war

Gather round me people there's a story I would tell

Bout a brave young Indian you should remember well

From the land of the Pima Indians a proud and noble band

Who farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land

Down their ditches for a thousand years the waters grew Ira's people's crops

Till the white man stole their water right and their sparkling water stopped

Now Ira's folks grew hungry and their land grew crops and weeds

When war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes...

Well they battled up Iwo Jima Hill two hundred and fifty men

But only 27 lived to walk back down again

And when the fight was over and old glory raised

Among the men who helt it high was the Indian Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes...

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 home no chance

At home nobody cared what Ira's done and when do the Indians dance

Call him drunken Ira Hayes...

Then Ira started drinking hard jail was often his home

They let him raise the flag and lower it like you would throw a dog a bone

He died drunk early one morning alone in the land he'd fought to save

Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes...

Yeah call him drunken Ira Hayes but his land is just as dry

And his ghost is laying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died