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On sundays the bulls get so bored |
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When they're asked to show off for us |
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There is the sun, the sand, and the arena |
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There are the bulls ready to bleed for us |
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It's time when grocery clerks |
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Become don juan |
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And all the ugly girls |
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Turn into swans |
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Who can say what he's found |
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That bull who turns and paws the ground |
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And suddenly he sees himself all nude |
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Who can say what he dreams |
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That bull who hears the silent screams |
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From the open mouths of multitudes |
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On sundays the bulls get so bored |
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When they're asked to suffer for us |
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There are the picadors and the mobs revenge |
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There are the toreros and the mob's revenge, |
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There are the toreros - and the mob kneels for us |
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It's time when grocery clerks |
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Become garcia-lorca |
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And the girls put the roses in their teeth |
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Like carmen |
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On sundays the bulls get so bored |
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When they're asked to drop dead for us |
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The sword will plunge down |
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And the mob will drool |
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The blood will poor down |
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And turn the sand to mud |
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It's time when grocery clerks |
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Become nero |
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And the girls scream |
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And shout the name of their hero |
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And when finally they fell |
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Did the bulls dream of a hell |
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Where men and worn out matadors |
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Still burn |
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And perhaps with their last breath |
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Would they pardon us their death |
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Knowing what we did at |
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Carthage, waterloo, verdon, stalingrad, iwoa jima , hiroshima, saigon |