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.