Ira Hayes, 
Ira Hayes
 [bad word] 
Call him [bad word] 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 
proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land

Down the ditches for a 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
 [bad word] 
Call him [bad word] 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 when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high 
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes
 [bad word] 
Call him [bad word] 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 crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done 
And when did the Indians dance

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 [bad word] 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
 [bad word] 
Call him [bad word] Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian 
Nor the Marine that went to war

Yeah, call him [bad word] Ira Hayes 
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty 
In the ditch where Ira died