Artist: Johnny Cash
Song: (The)Ballad of Ira Hayes
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Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;
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not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.
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Gather 'round me, people. There's a story I would tell
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'bout a brave young Indian you should remember well,
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from the land of the Pima Indians, a proud and nobel band,
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who farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land.
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Down their ditches a thousand years, the waters grew Ira's people's crops
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till the white man stole their water rights and the sparklin' water stopped.
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Now, Ira's folks were hungry and their land grew crops of weeds.
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When the war came, Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;
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not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.
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There they battled up Iwo Jima Hill; 250 men,
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but only 27 lived to walk back down again.
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And when the fight was over, and Old Glory raised,
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among the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;
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not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.
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Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land.
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He was wined and speeched and honored, ev'rybody shook his hand.
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But he was just a Pima Indian; no water, no home, no chance.
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At home nobody cared what Ira had done.
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And when do the Indians dance?
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;
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not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.
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Then Ira started drinkin' hard; jail was often his home.
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They let him raise the flag and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone.
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He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he fought to save.
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Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was a grave for Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore;
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not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.
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Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is just as dry,
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and his ghost is lyin' thirsty in the ditch were Ira died.
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