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Floating in the cold water the ghosts of sorrow haunt the deep |
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Reaching down to drag the ruins and roam the lone deserted streets |
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Of an old abandoned temple buried in the narrow strait |
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Off the coast of Tarifa, Spain |
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Gypsies scatter through the desert across the Atlas Mountain Range |
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Hoaring remnants from the Devil from the Empires iron reign |
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While cluttered down the mouths of rivers widowed lovers bathe and clean |
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Silken scarves embroidered for their brand new Queen |
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And every time she rises up the ocean sinks |
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Her memory drags a drape of a thousand angry stings |
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And like the moon doesn't mind if the sun doesn't shine |
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The sea doesn't care if you're lonesome tonight |
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Like the love that she gives condescendingly tries |
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In its way to comfort you |
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Set adrift into her swarm-man o war |
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Caught up in her dangling sting-off the shore |
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Of a foreign brown sand beach as blue as bottles cover you |
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Many messengers and rebels have come and gone without a trace |
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And many more will come tomorrow and many more will be erased |
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Cause out beyond the docks of Rota upon the bottom of the sea |
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Along the miles of copper cable from the Gulf of Cadiz |
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They tap the lines to hear the sounds that start the songs the rebels sing |
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And drag a net to seine the bottom for the purse the bastards bring |
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And like a lion don't mind if a lamb takes her time |
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A beast doesn't care if you surrender tonight |
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Cause a beast knows she'll get what she wants in good time |
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What she wants all in good time |
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Set adrift into her swarm-man o war |
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Caught up in her dangling sting-off the shore |
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Of a foreign brown sand beach as blue bottles cover you |
