Gold

El Dorado, smothered in gold,
   Drowns like the sun going down in the lake
And though Coronado’s carcass is cold
   His bones continue to shake
                       with the fever

Cortez, Pïsarro, Ponce de Leon
   Hear how they curse, hear how they moan
Each one slaughtered his way to the throne
   And all three were brought to their knees
                       by the fever

So dry my lips
   Dry as the Rio del Oro
I try to grip
   This Winchester singer of sorrow
Why oh why will my ship
   Not be here till tomorrow

The dirt floor is starting to spin
And the sweat’s pouring off of my skin
Soon the Waltz of our Lady of the Flames will begin

In old Colorado the earth is a honeycomb
   Lined with the skulls of young men
As the air grows thin and the skulls start to grin
   Jack wonders “How did this begin...
                       why do I have this fever?”

Down on his knees, Jack crawls through the mine
   He prays “Let me please leave this hell-hole behind”
And then, oh Jesus, the walls start to shine
   And Jack goes blind...
                       he is seized by the fever

So dry my lips
   Dry as the Rio del Oro
I try to grip
   This Winchester singer of sorrow
Why oh why will my ship
   Not be here till tomorrow

The dirt floor is starting to spin
And the sweat’s pouring off of my skin
Let the Waltz of our Lady of the flames begin