[Strophe]
         A           D 
 Ira Hayes,  Ira Hayes. 
          A                           D 
 Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore; 
         E                                 A 
 not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war.  
A                                    D 
 Gather 'round me, people. There's a story I would tell 
 E                            A 
 'bout a brave young Indian you should remember well, 
                                   D 
 from the land of the Pima Indians,  a proud and nobel band, 
 E                               A 
 who farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land. 
 A                                         D 
 Down their ditches a thousand years, the waters grew Ira's people's crops 
          E                                          A 
 till the white man stole their water rights and the sparklin' water stopped. 
                               D 
 Now, Ira's folks were hungry and their land grew crops of weeds. 
 E                                   A 
 When the war came, Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed. 
          A                            D 
 Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore; 
         E                                  A 
 not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war. 
            A                        D 
 There they battled up Iwo Jima Hill; 250 men, 
E                     A 
 but only 27 lived to walk back down again. 
                              D 
 And when the fight was over, and Old Glory raised, 
E                                       A 
 among the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes. 
          A                           D 
 Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore; 
         E                                  A 
 not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war. 
     A                       D 
 Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land. 
        E                                 A 
 He was wined and speeched and honored, ev'rybody shook his hand. 
                                D 
 But he was just a Pima Indian; no water, no home, no chance. 
    E 
 At home nobody cared what Ira had done. 
     A 
 And when do the Indians dance? 
          A                            D 
 Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore; 
         E                                 A 
 not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war. 
      A                        D 
 Then Ira started drinkin' hard; jail was often his home. 
      E                                        A 
 They let him raise the flag and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone. 
                                D 
 He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he fought to save. 
E                                             A 
 Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was a grave for Ira Hayes. 
          A                            D 
 Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore; 
         E                                A 
 not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the marine that went to war. 
                A                D 
 Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is just as dry, 
E                              A 
 and his ghost is lyin' thirsty in the ditch were Ira died.