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When you're lost in the rain in Juarez |
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And it's Eastertime too |
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And your gravity fails |
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And negativity don't pull you through |
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Don't put on any airs |
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When you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue |
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They got some hungry women there |
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And they really make a mess outa you. |
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Now if you see Saint Annie |
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Please tell her thanks a lot |
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I cannot move |
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My fingers are all in a knot |
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I don't have the strength |
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To get up and take another shot |
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And my best friend, my doctor |
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Won't even say what it is I've got. |
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Sweet Melinda |
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The peasants call her the goddess of gloom |
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She speaks good English |
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And she invites you up into her room |
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And you're so kind |
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And careful not to go to her too soon |
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And she takes your voice |
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And leaves you howling at the moon. |
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Up on Housing Project Hill |
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It's either fortune or fame |
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You must pick up one or the other |
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Though neither of them are to be what they claim |
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If you're lookin' to get silly |
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You better go back to from where you came |
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Because the cops don't need you |
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And man they expect the same. |
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Now all the authorities |
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They just stand around and boast |
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How they blackmailed the sergeant-at-arms |
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Into leaving his post |
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And picking up Angel who |
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Just arrived here from the coast |
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Who looked so fine at first |
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But left looking just like a ghost. |
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I started out on burgundy |
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But soon hit the harder stuff |
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Everybody said they'd stand behind me |
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When the game got rough |
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But the joke was on me |
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There was nobody even there to bluff |
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I'm going back to New York City |
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I do believe I've had enough. |
