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letra de mario y maria by butch hancock - butch hancock

mario was a perfect stranger
even in the face of danger
n0body knew if he’d hang around or turn around and run
from heaven to the other side of hades
he was attractive to the ladies
some said he was an angel and some said he was the devil’s son
but if there was a lock on swift salvation
mario picked the combination
headed for higher ground with real gold in his heart
and he left a trail no one could trace
and he told half-truths no one could face
deep in the river of his soul, the time had come to part
there are those who never come home
maria was the lonely one
and mario was the only one
who ever meant anything more to her than a fast “how do you do?”
with a roof over her prayerful head
and a gun under her feather bed
she had nightmares every day, and all of them came true
but changing time and different places
she found friends and fresher faces
if she had a memory, she’d locked it in her heart
accusations, loaded questions
empty thoughts and a few confessions
yesterday’s the finish and tomorrow is the start
there are those who never come home
angeline carved wooden dreams
an artist of the world it seems
a chisel cut her finger off, the one that wore the ring
and the doctor swore he heard her say
“it never fit me anyway
i would have sold it yesterday, but it wasn’t worth a thing.”
well the missing finger changed her style
and the missing ring just made her smile
she carved a spitting image of maria rubbing her eye
and around that statue’s neck of pine
on a yellow necklace made of twine
she hung that little worthless ring and n0body asked her why
there are those who never come home
at maria’s likeness, hearts would rupture
all throughout the world of sculpture
the well-to-do laid money down to stand around and stare
but on a locked up sunday night
that statue disappeared from sight
and it must have been a masterpiece, ‘cause it vanished in thin air
angeline committed suicide
some call it sad, some call it pride
some joker said, “it could have been worse, she could’ve cut off her ear.”
but the art world faced another fact
for her next-to-last artistic act
was a spitting image of mario wiping away a tear
there are those who never come home
the gravedigger wiped away the sweat
his hands were dry, but his face was wet
and the ladies watching him wanted to get their hands on that man
but somebody else had a closer shave
carving on the cross, built for the grave
the chisel slipped and nearly cut a finger from a hand
well across attracted hummingbirds
one for each of seven words
“life if possible, art at any cost”
but somebody asked when the crowd dispersed
if they got that epitaph reversed
the undertaker pointed out the last word on the cross
he said, “there are those who never come home.”
well a busted mario all did see
under gl-ss and lock and key
sure enough, as fate would have it, it got stolen too
and just like the real mario
it found its way down through the barrio
and left on a lonesome boxcar as some train came rolling through
well the undertaker was buried in dust
and the gravedigger satisfied his l-st
worked his way to the top of the pile, a connoisseur of the arts
and everybody else that was concerned
just chalked it up as a lesson learned
and the memories were flushed away down a common sewer of their hearts
there are those who never come home
imagination’s hard to manage
it takes time to take advantage
it takes lots of sp-ce itself to fill out everyday
and the ending’s worse than elvira madigan
guerrillas got loose and bombed the vatican
stole a couple of crying statues and hauled them away
well they sold them as a matching pair
in some clandestine affair
at last they’re out there somewhere crying face to face
and the real maria spits in her mirror
and the real mario spits in his beer
and both of them on separate paths, still drift from place to place
there are those who never come home
yeah there are those who never come home
—
.

- butch hancock

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