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