Come gather 'round me people, there's a story I'd like to tell
?Bout a brave young Indian, which you should remember well
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley down in Arizona land.
Down their ditches for ten thousand years the sparkling waters rushed
When the white man stole the water rights and all the waters hushed
Now Ira's folks go hungry, their farms grow crops of weeds
But when war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed
Chorus:
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinking Indian, the marine that went to war
They battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
And only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again
And when that fight was over and when Old Glory raised
Among the men that held her high was the Indian Ira Hayes
Chorus
Well, Ira came back a hero, he was celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a Pima Indian, he had no money, no home, no chance
And in Arizona no one cared what Ira'd done, just went to the Indians' dance
So Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag and lower it just like they threw a dog a bone
Well, he died drunk early one morning all alone in this land he?d fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonesome ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes
Chorus
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty inside the ditch where Ira died.
Writer(s): P. La Farge
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