Luyện nghe bài hát The Ballad of Ira Hayes

Ira Hayes...
Ira Hayes...
Call him Ira Hayes,
He answer 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 remember well.
From the of the Pima Indian,
A and noble band,
Who the Phoenix Valley,
In land.
Down the ditches a 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 crops of weeds,
war came, Ira volunteered,
And forgot the white greed.

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

There battled up Iwo Jima hill,
Two hundred and men,
But only lived,
To walk back 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 answer anymore,
Not the whiskey Indian,
Or the marine went to war.

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

him drunken 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
Like throw a dog a bone.
He died early one morning,
Alone in the land he to save,
Two inches of water and a ditch,
Was a for Ira Hayes.

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

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