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When it's fiesta time in Guadalajara,
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Then I long to be back once again
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In Old Mexico.
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Where we lived for today,
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Never giving a thought to tomara.
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To the strumming of guitars,
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In a hundred grubby bars
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I would whisper "Te amo."
|
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The mariachis would serenade,
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And they would not shut up till they were paid.
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We ate, we drank, and we were merry,
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And we got typhoid and dysentery.
|
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But best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros.
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Now whenever I start feeling morose,
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I revive by recalling that scene.
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And names like Belmonte, Dominguin, and Manolete,
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If I live to a hundred and eighty,
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I shall never forget what they mean.
|
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(For there is surely nothing more beautiful in this
|
world than the sight of a lone man facing singlehandedly
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a half a ton of angry pot roast!)
|
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Out came the matador,
|
Who must have been potted or
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Slightly insane, but who looked rather bored.
|
Then the picadors of course,
|
Each one on his horse,
|
I shouted "Ole!" ev'ry time one was gored.
|
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I cheered at the bandilleros' display,
|
As they stuck the bull in their own clever way,
|
For I hadn't had so much fun since the day
|
My brother's dog Rover
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Got run over.
|
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(Rover was killed by a Pontiac. And it was done with
|
such grace and artistry that the witnesses awarded the
|
driver both ears and the tail--but I digress.)
|
|
The moment had come,
|
I swallowed my gum,
|
We knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon.
|
The crowd held its breath,
|
HOping that death
|
Would brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.
|
|
At last, the matador did what we wanted him to.
|
He raised his sword and his aim was true.
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In that moment of truth I suddenly knew
|
That someone had stolen my wallet.
|
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Now it's fiesta time in Akron, Ohio,
|
But it's back to old Guadalajara I'm longing to go.
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Far away from the strikes of the A.F. of L. and C.I.O.
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How I wish I could get back
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To the land of the wetback,
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And forget the Alamo,
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In Old Mexico. Ole!
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|
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-----------------
|
In Old Mexico
|
| Tom Lehrer |
