You find me in the crowds in Manuel Becerra were
cold morning sends us off to Golgatha or in my case
a lonesome stride down calle de Alcalá.
Can't she track me down and embrace me
in a long interlude?
And make up for the mephedrone between my thighs
that stopped love from being made?
With a rosary in my hands were I die and long to be loved,
God sets me free, commands me to be free,
to sense free in cold spanish morning.
Sends me down Alcalá and Goya to revolver shoot me
back home to Manuel Becerra, revived and hardened
I'm doomed to be alone with my dark thoughts but I am free,
free to move on . . . the toughest fight there is.