Verse
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Gather round me, people, and a story I will tell
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About a brave young Indian you should remember well
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From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band,
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They farmed the Phoenix valley 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 their water rights and the running water hushed.
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Now Ira's folks were hungry, and their farms grew crops of weeds.
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But when war came, he volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes
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He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
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Or the Marine who went to war.
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Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes
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He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
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Or the Marine who went to war.
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They started up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty men,
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But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down that hill again.
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And when the fight was over and Old Glory raised
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One of the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes
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He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.
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Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
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Or the Marine who went to war.
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Now, Ira 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 was just a Pima Indian - no money, no crops, no chance -
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And at home nobody cared what Ira'd done, and when do the Indians dance?
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.
G# G#/G G#7/F#
Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.
G# C# C#maj7 A#m
Then Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home.
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They let him raise the flag there 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'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
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.
G# G#/G G#7/F#
Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.
G# C# C#maj7 A#m
Yes, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry,
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And his ghost is lying thirsty In the ditch where Ira died.
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Call him drunken Ira Hayes
C# C#maj7 A#m
He won't answer anymore,
D#
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
C#/G# G#
Or the Marine who went to war.