The Ballad
of Ira Hayes
Written by Peter LaFarge
Recorded by Johnny Cash
Call
him drunken Ira Hayes,
He
won't answer any more.
Not
the whiskey drinking Indian
Or
the Marine that went to war.
Gather
around me, people,
There's
a story I would tell.
About
a brave young Indian
You
should remember well.
From
the land of the Pima Indians,
A
proud and noble band,
Who
farmed the Phoenix Valley
In
Arizona land.
Down
the ditches for a thousand years,
The
waters grew Ira's people's crops.
Til
the white man stole their water rights,
And
the sparkling 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.
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.
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?
Then
Ira started drinking 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 morning,
Alone
in the land he'd fought to save.
Two
inches of water in a lonely ditch,
Was
a grave for Ira Hayes.
Designed
by Old Gringo
