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.