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THE BULLS

 
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THE BULLS On Sundays the bulls get so bored

When they are asked to show off for us



There is the sun, the sand, and the arena

There are the bulls ready to bleed for us

It's the time when grocery clerks become Don Juan

It's the time when all ugly girls

Turn into swans, aaahh.

Who can say of what he's found

That bull who turns and paws the ground

And suddenly he s ees himself all nude, aaahh.

Who can say of what he dreams

That bull who hears the silent screams

From the open mouths of multitudes

Olé!

On Sundays the bulls get so bored

When they are asked to suffer for us

There are the picadors and the mobs revenge

There are the toreros, and the mob kneels for us

It's the time when grocery clerks become García Lorca

And the girls put roses in their teeth like Carmen

On Sundays the bulls get so bored

When they are asked to drop dead for us

The sword will plunge down and the mob will drool

The blood will pour down and turn the sand to mud.

Olé, olé!

The moment of triumph when grocery clerks become Nero

The moment of triumph when the girls scream and shout

The name of their hero, aaahh.

And when finally they fell

Did not the bulls dream of some hell

Where men and worn-out matadors still burn, aaahh.

Or perhaps with their last breaths

Would not they pardon us their deaths

Knowing w hat we did at

Carthage--olé!--Waterloo--olé!--Verdun--olé!

Stalingrad--olé!--Iwo Jima--olé!--Hiroshima--olé!--Saigon!
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