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I saw her in the barrio |
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In the town where the brothers fought |
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Across the river from the Moorish Mosque |
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That the Spanish Christians bought |
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Her hair was dressed by Vesps |
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Woven in the leather wind |
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She grew up int the country |
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You could see it in her innocent grin |
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Run Preciosa, Run for love |
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The olive trees need rain |
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Memories of your gypsy past |
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Still ride on the midnight train |
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Your lover's heart was way too wild |
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You saw it in his face |
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You walk the graveyard with his child |
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In a veil of Spanish lace |
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The son of Tony Camborio |
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Drove a souped up Red Renault |
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With a muffler rusted as the red wrought iron |
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Around his father's burial vault |
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The Civil Guards raise their sleepy heads |
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When she spins to watch the car change lanes |
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Tho so many years have passed |
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Not that much has changed |
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Run Preciosa, Run for love |
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The olive trees need rain |
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Memories of your gypsy past |
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Still ride on the midnight train |
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Your lover's heart was way too wild |
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You saw it in his face |
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You walk the graveyard with his child |
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In a veil of Spanish lace |
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The hours paint the whitewashed walls |
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In shadows of Lavender-grey |
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Preciosa counts the ring of bells |
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From the church where the white doves lay |
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The flashing lights of the Civil Guard |
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Around a red renault they flash |
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Not that much has really changed, |
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Tho so much time has passed... |