A                    D

Ira Hayes,          Ira Hayes.

               A                                            D

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;

            E                                                   A

not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.

A                                                           D

    Gather 'round me, people. There's a story I would tell

E                                              A

    'bout a brave young Indian you should remember well,

                                                         D

from the land of the Pima Indians,       a proud and nobel band,

E                                                   A

who farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land.

A                                                                     D

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

           E                                                                  A

till the white man stole their water rights and the sparklin' water stopped.

                                                 D

Now, Ira's folks were hungry and their land grew crops of weeds.

E                                                          A

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

               A                                            D

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;

            E                                                   A

not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.

                  A                                     D

There they battled up Iwo Jima Hill;     250 men,

E                                    A

      but only 27 lived to walk back down again.

                                                 D

And when the fight was over, and Old Glory raised,

E                                                                A

among the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.

               A                                            D

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;

            E                                                   A

not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.

      A                                  D

Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land.

              E                                                       A

He was wined and speeched and honored, ev'rybody shook his hand.

                                                   D

But he was just a Pima Indian; no water, no home, no chance.

     E

At home nobody cared what Ira had done.

        A

And when do the Indians dance?

               A                                            D

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;

            E                                                   A

not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.

         A                                  D

Then Ira started drinkin' hard;      jail was often his home.

          E                                                         A

They let him raise the flag and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone.

                                                    D

He died drunk early one morning,    alone in the land he fought to save.

E                                                                            A

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

               A                                            D

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;

            E                                                   A

not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.

                         A                           D

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

E                                                A

       and his ghost is lyin' thirsty        in the ditch were Ira died.