Paroles de The Awful Ache

Esmerelda falls in love every Saturday And on Sunday morning don't remember a thing And the gringos are all saints of the latter day, that's the way And it takes a little pain out of the sting Holy water tastes as sweet as wine Holy wine tastes just like blood She's drinking for loss, for the man on the cross She says no more, the awful ache And in her bedroom there's a mirror there Sometimes it don't reflect a thing And from the street he sees her silhouette And he can't forget That her kisses are as sweet as wine And her kisses taste like myrrh Her love is lost, like the man on the cross And no more, the awful ache Esmerelda walks on down to the cemet'ry And he's waiting for her in the shade With the angels and the sad old trees, patiently But she walks right past his grave She's crying for loss, for the man on the cross She says no more, the awful ache She's crying for loss, and the man on the cross She says no more, the awful ache