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Ignacio lay dying in the sand |
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A single red rose clutched in a dying hand |
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The women wept to see their hero die |
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And the big black birds gathered in the sky |
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Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows |
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Intercede with him tonight |
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For all of our tomorrows |
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The years went by and then the killers came |
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And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain |
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And Lorca the faggot poet they left till last |
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Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse |
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Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows |
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Intercede with him tonight |
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For all of our tomorrows |
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The killers came to mutilate the dead |
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But ran away in terror to search the town instead |
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But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away |
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And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying |
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Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows |
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Intercede with him tonight |
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For all of our tomorrows |
