Bacon Rind, Chief Seattle, The Ballad Of Ira Hayes: acordes por 
Tom Russell 
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Tom: C major•
Verse 1
Ryan was an old sage chief.
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He wore a regal hat. I found him in a gas station
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painted on one of those giveaway glasses.
Indians of
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Oklahoma, you can collect
Hunting horse, sequoia, dull knife,
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I don't have them all yet.
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As I drive across this wild ground
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for what wisdom I can find,
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I thought of those gas station drinking
glasses and a chief called
Bacon
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Ryan.
Chief
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Seattle stared into the yellow eyes of
the mission padre and then spit
on the ground and said your religion was
written on tablets of stone by the iron
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God our religion is the tradition
of our ancestors in the
dreams of our old men given to them in
the solemn hours of the night by the
great spirit.
Our religion is in the visions
of our leaders and it is written
in the hearts of our people.
The mission father wrote off to preach the
Ten
Commandments to those who had
stopped listening with their hearts.
Come gather round me, people,
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a story I will tell
About a brave young
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Indian you should remember well
From the land of the
Pima
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Indian, a proud and a noble band
Phoenix
Valley down in
Down their ditches for a thousand years
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the water grew our people's crops
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till the white man stole their water right
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s and the rippling waters stopped.
Now
Ira's folks was hungry,
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but their land grew crops of weeds
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But when war came,
Ira volunteered,
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forgot the white man's deeds
Call him
Junkin'
Ira
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Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin'
Indian, or the
They battled up
Iwo
Jima
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Hill, 119 men, but only 27
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lived to walk back down again.
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And when the smoke had cleared and old glory raised,
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among the men that held it high was
the
Indian
Ira
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Hayes.
Ira
Hayes returned a hero
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throughout the land
speeched and honored
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And everybody held his hand
But he was just a
Pima
Indian
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No water, no home, no chance
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Yeah, back home no one cared what
Ira done
Hell, when do the
Call him
Drunken
Ira
Hayes
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F#m
He won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey -drinkin'
Indian
The
Then
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Ira started drinking hard and jail
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was often his home
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They let him raise the flag and lower it
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there like you'd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk one
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Sunday morning alone in the
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land he'd fought to save
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Two inches of water in a
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lonely ditch was a grave for
Ira
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Hayes
Call him
Drunken
Ira
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Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Indian, but the
Call him
Drunken
Ira
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Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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B
Not the whiskey drinking
Indian, but the
Yeah, call him drunken
Ira
Hayes
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But his land is just as dry
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An d his ghost is lying thirsty
In the ditch where
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