Lyrics:

Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes Call him drunken Ira Hayes He won't answer anymore Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian Nor the Marine that went to war Gather round me people there's a story I would tell About a brave young Indian you should remember well From the land of the Pima Indian A proud and noble band Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land Down the ditches for a thousand years The water grew Ira's peoples' crops 'Till the white man stole the water rights And the sparklin' water stopped Now Ira's folks were hungry And their land grew crops of weeds When war came, Ira volunteered And forgot the white man's greed Call him drunken Ira Hayes He won't answer anymore Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian Nor the Marine that went to war There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill, Two hundred and fifty men But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again And when the fight was over 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 anymore Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian Nor the Marine that went to war Ira returned a hero Celebrated through the land He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand But he was just a Pima Indian No water, no crops, no chance At home nobody cared what Ira'd done And when did the Indians dance Call him drunken Ira Hayes He won't answer anymore Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian Nor the Marine that went to war Then Ira started drinkin' hard; Jail was often his home They'd let him raise