| At the Three of Swords Tavern
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| Between guitars and blackberry anise
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| How she sang at dawn
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| For soleares La Ruiseñora
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| What was given is over
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| Paco Olivares told him
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| And he led her up to the altar;
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| And she who teased him
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| She turned white with orange blossoms
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| And she never sang again
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| But Paco, before the year
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| She began to return by day
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| And to drink without rhyme or reason;
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| And biting the disappointment
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| The flamenco woman repeated
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| In the iron bars of the balcony
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| What's wrong Nightingale?
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| I have a child of sorrow
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| And jealousy in the throat
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| That even my heart cries
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| For seguiriyas, for soleares
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| And for tarantas
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| What shadow has him slave?
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| Which direction did he curse
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| This nail pain is coming
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| What breaks my feeling?
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| Where is the dying
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| That between the night and the dawn
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| He moves singing a cante
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| Better than The Nightingale?
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| To the Three of Swords she ran she jealous
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| With her little face she terrifies
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| And she saw her Paco of her that with the Rosa
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| At a table she had fun
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| She went straight up to the tablao
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| Here is The Nightingale
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| For what they like to send;
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| that thing and me is over
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| I am the singer again
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| What are we going to sing with?
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| Well, your luck will come true
|
| And in the lightning of a shot
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| The cafe lit up
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| She saw death come
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| And in the last breath
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| She in this way she sang to him...
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| God help you, Nightingale
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| bells toll
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| For the silence of your throat;
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| And pray for your singer
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| The siguiriyas, the soleares
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| and the tarantas
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| With a breath you turned me off
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| the lamp of life
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| Look how well you paid
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| What I loved you
|
| Where is the dying
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| That between the night and the dawn
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| She dies singing a cante
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| Better than The Nightingale? |