(Shane MacGowan)
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 !@$)got poet they left till last
Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse


Mother of all our joys....

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....