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Ira Hayes  Townes Van Zandt

Come g[D]ather 'round me, people, there's a st[G]ory I would tell

About a b[A7]rave young Indian, you shou[G]ld remember we[D]ll;
Frome the [D]land of the Pima Indians, a p[G]roud and noble band,
[A7]Who farmed the Phoenix Valley in A[G]rizona l[D]and.


Down their ditches for a thousand years the aparkling weater rushed
Till the white man stole their water rights and their sparklin' water hushed
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.

Chorus
Call him dr[D]unken Ira Hayes, He won't answer an[G]ymore;
Not the wh[A7]iskey drinkin' indian, not the ma[G]rine that went to w[D]ar.

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robstar (report)

Dude, I'm pretty sure it's ...g c d.