The liquor stores on the edge
of the reservations are made out of cement,
solid cement with iron doors.
Come gather round me, people,
a story I'd like to tell
About a brave young Indian
that you should remember well
From a tribe of Pima Indians,
a proud and noble band,
Farmed the Phoenix Valley
down in Arizona land.
Down the ditches for ten thousand years
the sparkling waters rushed,
Then the white man stole the water rights
and all the running waters hushed.
The Naira's folks go hungry
and their farms grow crops of weeds
When war came, Naira volunteered
and forgot the white man's greed
Call him drunken Naira Hayes,
he won't an swer any more
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indian,
the Marine that went to war
They battled up Iwo Jima Hill, 250 men
And only 27 lived to
walk back down again
And when that fight was over,
an d when old glory raised
Well, among the men that held her high
was the Indian Ira Hayes
You call him drunken Ira Hayes,
he can't answer anymore
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indy,
the Marine that went to war
Well, Ira came back a hero
He was celebrated throughout the land
He was whined and speeched
and honored
Everybody shook his hand
But he was just a Pima Indian
Had no money, no home, no chance
In Arizona, no one cared
what Ira had done
It's when did the Indians dance
And so Ira started drinkin' hard
and jail was off in his home
They let him raise the flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog or 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 a grave for Ira Hayes
Call him Drunken Ira Hayes,
he won't an swer any more
Not the whiskey -drinkin' Indian,
the Marine that went to war
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
Thanks.