| 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
|
| 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
|
| Run Preciosa, Run for love
|
| The olive trees need rain
|
| Memories of your gypsy past
|
| Still ride on the midnight train
|
| Your lover’s heart was way too wild
|
| You saw it in his face
|
| You walk the graveyard with his child
|
| In a veil of Spanish lace
|
| The hours paint the whitewashed walls
|
| 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… |