On Sundays the bulls get so boredWhen they're asked to show off for usThere is the sun, the sand, and the arenaThere are the bulls ready to bleed for usIt's time when grocery clerksBecome Don JuanAnd all the ugly girlsTurn into swansWho can say what he's foundThat bull who turns and paws the groundAnd suddenly he sees himself all nudeWho can say what he dreamsThat bull who hears the silent screamsFrom the open mouths of multitudesOn Sundays the bulls get so boredWhen they're asked to suffer for usThere are the picadors and the mobs revengeThere are the toreros and the mob's revenge,there are the toreros - and the mob kneels for usIt's time when grocery clerksbecome Garcia-LorcaAnd the girls put the roses in their teethLike CarmenOn Sundays the bulls get so boredWhen they're asked to drop dead for usThe sword will plunge downAnd the mob will droolThe blood will poor downAnd turn the sand to mudIt's time when grocery clerksBecome NeroAnd the girls screamAnd shout the name of their heroAnd when finally they fellDid the bulls dream of a hellWhere men and worn out matadorsStill burnAnd perhaps with their last breathWould they pardon us their deathKnowing what we did atCarthage, Waterloo, Verdon, Stalingrad, Iwoa Jima , Hiroshima, Saigon