Passion. Desperation. Death. It’s a ballad you can wear.
Listen now gentlemen, as I sing a song to you from me
I hope you will enjoy this story of pain and misery
The heroes of our sorry tale are Carlos and Esteban
Bonafide Morelianos from the state of Michoacán
Two friends as close as brothers and always would be, they said
Until the day they met the woman with hair of flaming red
Hair tied in a silver band and piled up so big and high
Carlos he was standing on the street as she went walking by
He strummed a chord on his guitar, and she gave him a wink
“You look like a big strong man, can you help me, do you think?”
He knew in that moment he’d do anything she said
For just a kiss from the woman with hair of flaming red
She said a bad man had stolen the fortune of her family
And deposited it in a bank in the center of the city
The bad man owned the mayor, the bad man owned the police
So the only way to get it back was to turn to robbery
Carlos was ready to march in where angels fear to tread
On just a word from the woman with hair of flaming red
Now Esteban was just punching his morning clock-in card
To start the day at his job as the bank security guard
Now Carlos knew this well, but when he picked up his gun
All his thoughts they disappeared, save for but only one:
“After I help rob the bank and win back her family bread
“I’ll be the lover of the woman with hair of flaming red.”
Into the bank now Carlos went, silver revolver drawn
When he shouted, who should turn but a guard named Esteban?
Each man pulled a trigger, from each barrel a bullet spilled
And only as each friend fell did they realize who they’d killed
Now they lay upon the floor, bodies riddled with lead
All on the word of the woman with hair of flaming red
Carlos he could feel his life draining from his chest
But he had strength enough to point the gun at her breast
He fired one last shot, to avenge his friend who fell
If he was ever to dance with her, it would have to be in Hell
Her pretty face went scarlet now everywhere she’d bled
And all three of them were buried with roses of flaming red
Wear this shirt: next time you’re in a shootout in a dusty border town. It’ll give your opponent a better target to hit, increasing the chance that you’ll be killed cleanly and painlessly.
Don’t wear this shirt: to your funeral. They don’t write songs about guys who get buried in t-shirts.
This shirt tells the world: “You don’t actually eat those sugar skulls. They’re decorative.”
We call this color: Rosa Negra.
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