Naked in the lobby of a pension in Bilbao
Battered, bleeding, broken, crawling on face down.
Two men for a funeral and an old man of the cloth
Trailing lines of blood and not stopping to wipe it off
You can choose to preach your story
And you can dig at the mountain base
And you can plan for a landslide coming
When they’ve forgotten your face

Eight hours under arc lights, interrogation cell
Guardia civil are listening, they may as well
Two men for the record and the story stays the same
Turning round the questions and planting seeds of shame
You see a people migrate slowly
Across rough terrain
This fractured moon we travel under
Puts a heart over a brain

You’ll never get a answer, never get your things back
Might get an apology and 50 euros to get on track
And then you’re clear…
So you send…
Two men for the fall guys and one to bury the case
Closing up the file and getting the records erased
And you can dig at a mountain base
And you can shore it up with wood
And you can set a slow flame burning
Where it’ll do no good
And when the lifetime’s passed you over
And the story’s become a game
You can start the landslide coming
And send it crashing down again.