Luyện nghe bài hát The Ballad of Ira Hayes

Ira Hayes...
Ira Hayes...
Call him Ira Hayes,
He won't anymore,
Not the drinking Indian,
Or the that went to war.

'round me people,
There's a story I tell,
'Bout a young Indian,
You should well.
the land of the Pima Indian,
A proud and band,
Who farmed the Valley,
In land.
Down the ditches a years,
The waters grew Ira's crops,
'Til the white man stole their rights,
And the sparkling stopped.
Now, folks were hungry,
And their land crops of weeds,
war came, Ira volunteered,
And forgot the man's greed.

him drunken Ira Hayes,
He answer anymore,
Not the whiskey Indian,
Or the marine that to war.

There battled up Iwo Jima hill,
Two and fifty men,
But twenty-seven lived,
To back down again.
And the fight was over,
And Old raised,
the men who held it high,
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes.

Call him Ira Hayes,
He won't anymore,
Not the drinking Indian,
Or the marine that to war.

Ira Hayes a hero,
Celebrated the land,
He was and speeched and honored,
shook his hand,
But he was a Pima Indian,
No water, no home, no chance,
At nobody cared what Ira'd done,
And did the Indians dance.

Call him Ira Hayes,
He won't anymore,
Not the whiskey Indian,
Or the that went to war.

Then Ira drinking hard,
was often his home,
They let him raise the and lower it
Like throw a dog a bone.
He died early one morning,
in the land he fought to save,
Two of water and a lonely ditch,
Was a for Ira Hayes.

Call him Ira Hayes,
He answer anymore,
Not the drinking Indian,
Or the that went to war.

Yeah, him drunken Ira Hayes,
But his land is as dry,
And his is lying thirsty,
In the ditch Ira died.