Call him drunken Ira Hayes
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indian
Nor the marine that went to war
There's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian
From the land of the Pima Indian,
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley
Down the ditches for a thousand years
the water grew Irish people's crops
and the sparkling water stopped.
Now Ira's folks were hungry,
and the land grew crops of weeds.
When the war came, Ira volunteered,
and forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira Haines,
if he won't answer anymore.
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indians
or the marine that went to war
There they battled up Iwo Jima's Hill,
two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty -seven lived
and when old glory raised
Among the men who held it high
was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken, Ira Hayes,
he won't answer any more.
Not the whiskey -drinking Indian,
nor the marine that went to war.
celebrated through the land.
He was whined and speeched
everybody shook his hand.
But he was just a Pima Indian,
no water, no crops, no chance.
At home nobody cared what I was done,
when did the Indians dance?
Call him drunken I will hate,
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indian
nor the marine that went to war
Then Iris started drinkin' hard,
He let him raise the flag
and lower it like he'd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk one morning,
alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely dish
was a grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him Drunken Ira Hayes,
you won't answer any more.
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indian
or the marine that went to war.
Yeah, call him Drunken Ira Hayes,
but his land is just as dry,
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
in the ditch where Ira died.
