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 marine went to war.

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

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

There they up Iwo Jima hill,
Two and fifty men,
But twenty-seven lived,
To walk down again.
And when the 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 whiskey Indian,
Or the that went to war.

Ira returned a hero,
through the land,
He was wined and and honored,
Everybody his hand,
But he was just a Indian,
No water, no home, no chance,
At nobody cared what Ira'd done,
And did the Indians dance.

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

Then Ira drinking hard,
was often his home,
They let him raise the flag and it
you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died early one morning,
Alone in the he fought to save,
Two inches of water and a ditch,
Was a for Ira Hayes.

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

Yeah, him drunken Ira Hayes,
But his is just as dry,
And his ghost is thirsty,
In the where Ira died.