Natasha Bedingfield

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