I threw a rose to the matador, not sure who I was 
cheering for
My aim was true, my heart was full, I loved the fighter 
and the bull
I loved like only a woman can, a very complicated man
I bound his wounds, I heard his cries, I gave him 
truth, I told him lies
His rage is made of many things: faithless women, 
wedding rings
Snakes and snails and alcohol, his daddy's fist thrown 
through the wall
Ah but he's beautiful when he's in the ring, the devil 
howls, the angels sing
Sparks fly from his fingertips and words like birds fly 
from his lips
Some man is lyin' in the dirt
Some woman's crying that he's hurt
But he's not alive without the thrill
Without the dance, without the kill
The lights go down, the people roar
They're cheering on the matador
And this is how the story goes
I knew it when I threw the rose
I come to each and every show; the woman in the second 
row
I watch them in their ancient dance and I know I never 
stood a chance
Cause while other demons prance and clown, it's vanity 
that takes you down
I thought that I could be the one, but I'm just another 
hanger-on
Some man is bleedin' in the dirt
Some woman's crying that she's hurt
But who are we without the thrill
Without the dance, without the kill
And he is bull and matador
And I'm the mother and the whore
And this is how the story goes
I knew it when I threw the rose
I threw a rose to the matador, not sure who I was 
cheering for
My aim was true, my heart was full; I loved the fighter 
and the bull