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The Ballad of Ira Hayes Ringtone
The Ballad of Ira Hayes Ringtone
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30
@Hatice
1572
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 of 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 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,he is 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 home, 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 the flag and lower it
Like you'd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died
28
@Aylin
59
(Peter La Farge)
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 of a thousand years,
The waters 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 hill.
Two hundred and fifty men.
But only twenty-seven lived,
To walk back down again.
And when the fight was over,
And 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 Hayes 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 home, 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 let him raise the flag and lower it,
Like you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk early one mornin',
Alone in the land he fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch,
Was a grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes.
He won't answer anymore.
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian,
Nor the Marine that went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes.
But his land is just as dry.
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty,
In the ditch where Ira died.
30
@Noah
36
