Luyện nghe bài hát The Ballad of Ira Hayes

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

Gather me people,
a story I would 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 peoples' crops,
'Til the white man stole water rights,
And the sparkling stopped.
Now, Ira's folks hungry,
And their grew crops of weeds,
war came, Ira volunteered,
And forgot the white greed.

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

There they up Iwo Jima hill,
Two hundred and men,
But twenty-seven lived,
To walk back 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 drinking Indian,
Or the marine that to war.

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

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

Then Ira drinking hard,
was often his home,
They let him the flag and lower it
you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk one morning,
in the land he fought to save,
Two inches of 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 where Ira died.