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