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