Ballad of Ira Hayes Songtext
von Patrick Sky

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won′t answer anymore
Not that whiskey drinking Indian, or the Marine who went to war

Come gather 'round me people, and a story I will tell
About a brave young Indian, you should remember well
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
That farmed the Phoenix valley, in the Arizona land

Down their ditches for a thousand years, the sparkling water rushed
Till the Whiteman stole their water
Rights, and the running water hushed
Well, Ira′s folks was hungry, and their farms grew crops of weeds
But when war came, he volunteered and forgot the Whiteman's greed


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 raised
Among the men who held her high, was the Indian, Ira Hayes

Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land
He was wined, and speeched, and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he's just a Pima Indian, no water, no crops, no chance
Back home nobody cared what Ira had
Done, and when do the Indians dance?

Well, Ira he started drinking hard, jail often was his home
They′d let him raise the flag there and
Lower it, like you′d throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning,
All alone in the land he'd fought to save
Two inches of water in lonely ditch, was a grave, for Ira Hayes

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty, in the ditch where Ira died