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