Ignacio lay dying in the sand

A single red rose clutched in a dying hand

The women wept to see their hero die

And the big black birds gathered in the sky



Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows

Intercede with him tonight

For all of our tomorrows



The years went by and then the killers came

And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain

And Lorca the faggot poet they left till last

Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse



Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows

Intercede with him tonight

For all of our tomorrows



The killers came to mutilate the dead

But ran away in terror to search the town instead

But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away

And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying



Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows

Intercede with him tonight

For all of our tomorrows