When you're lost in the rain in Juarez
And it's Eastertime too
And your gravity fails
And negativity don't pull you through,
Don't put on any airs
When you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue;
They got some hungry women there
And they really make a mess outta you.

Now, if you see Saint Annie,
Please tell her thanks a lot;
I cannot move
My fingers are all in a knot.
I don't have the strength
To get up and take another shot
And my best friend, my doctor,
Won't even say what it is I've got

Sweet Melinda,
The peasants call her the goddess of gloom,
She speaks good English
And she invites you up into her room;
And you're so kind
And careful not to go to her too soon;
And she takes your voice
And leaves you howling at the moon.

Up on Housing Project Hill
It's either fortune or fame.
You must pick up one or the other
Though neither of them are to be what they claim.
If you're lookin' to get silly,
You better go back to from where you came,
Because the cops don't need you
And, man, they expect the same.

Now, all the authorities,
They just stand around and boast
How they blackmailed the sergeant-at-arms
Into leaving his post;
And picking up Angel who
Just arrived here from the coast
Who looked so fine at first,
But left looking just like a ghost.

I started out on burgundy
But soon hit the harder stuff.
Everybody said they'd stand behind me
When the game got rough;
But the joke was on me
There was nobody even there to bluff.
I'm going back to New York City;
I do believe I've had enough.