Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore. Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian or the Marine that went to war. He died drunk, early one morning. Alone in a land he faught to save. Two inches of water and a ditch was a grave for Ira Hayes. Call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is just as dry, and his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch
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