(Peter LaFarge)
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Gather round me people and a story I will tell
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¡®Bout a brave young Indian lad, you should remember well,
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From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
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Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land.
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Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
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Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
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Ira¡¯s folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
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But when 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 that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
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Well, they battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
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But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
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And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised,
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Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won¡¯t answer anymore,
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Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
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Well, Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
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He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
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But he¡¯s just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
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And nobody cared what Ira did and when do the Indians dance.
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Well, Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
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They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like you¡¯d throw a dog a bone.
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And Ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land he¡¯d fought to save.
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Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won¡¯t answer anymore,
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Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
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Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is till as dry
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And his ghost, well, that¡¯s lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won¡¯t answer anymore,
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Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
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Kinky Friedman |