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    Gather round you people and a story I will tell
    About a brave young Indian you should remember well
    From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band
    They farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land
    Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
    Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
    Now Ira's folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
    But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white man's greed
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
    Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.

    They started up Iwo Jima Hill, 250 men
    But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
    And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
    One of the men who held it high was the Indian Ira Hayes
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.

    Now Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
    He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
    But he was just a Pima Indian, no money crops, no chance
    And at home nobody cared what Ira had done and the wind did the Indian's
    dance
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.

    And Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
    They let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone
    He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
    Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
    Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.

    Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
    And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died
    Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
    Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
    Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.

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