El Santo

The barkeep mops up the beer and blood
Last call for rotgut, it appears
The gamblers gather up their chips
With the Tombstone drunks poured out the door

El Santo decides to stick around
Escort the tired whore to bed
Wipe away her kohl-tinted tears
One gentle kiss for those bruised lips
A few more placed on either breast
He gathers up the tattered skirt
And tongues away her sorrows

She awakens hungover, yet again
The stink of a dozen men still clinging
She dreamt of retirement, leaving town
And knows this may be realized
Given the fistful of dollars left on the bed
And a bandito's weight in gold.