Bob Dylan - The Ballad Of Ira Hayes Lyrics
Gather round you people and a story I will tellAbout a brave young indian you should remember wellFrom the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful bandThey farmed the phoenix valley in arizona landDown their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushedTill their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushedNow iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weedsBut when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greedCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to warYes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.They started up iwo jima hill, 250 menBut only 27 lived to walk back down that hill againAnd when the fight was over and the old glory raisedOne of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayesCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to warCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the landHe was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his handBut he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chanceAnd at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indiansDanceCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to warCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his homeThey let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a boneHe died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to saveTwo inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayesCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to warYes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dryAnd his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira diedCall him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to warYes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
