On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they're 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 time when grocery clerks Become Don Juan And all the ugly girls Turn into swans
Who can say what he's found That bull who turns and paws the ground And suddenly he sees himself all nude Who can say what he dreams That bull who hears the silent screams From the open mouths of multitudes
On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they're asked to suffer for us There are the picadors and the mobs revenge There are the toreros and the mob's revenge, there are the toreros - and the mob kneels for us
It's time when grocery clerks become Garcia-Lorca And the girls put the roses in their teeth Like Carmen
On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they're asked to drop dead for us The sword will plunge down And the mob will drool The blood will poor down And turn the sand to mud
It's time when grocery clerks Become Nero And the girls scream And shout the name of their hero
And when finally they fell Did the bulls dream of a hell Where men and worn out matadors Still burn And perhaps with their last breath Would they pardon us their death Knowing what we did at Carthage, Waterloo, Verdon, Stalingrad, Iwoa Jima , Hiroshima, Saigon
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