In Old Mexico

The mariachis would serenade,

And they would not shut up till they were paid.

We ate, we drank, and we were merry,

And we got typhoid and dysentery.

But best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros.

Now whenever I start feeling morose,

I revive by recalling that scene.

And names like Belmonte, Dominguín, and

Manolete.

If I live to a hundred and eight-e,

I shall never forget what they mean.

(For there is surely nothing more beautiful in

this world than the sight of a lone man facing

singlehandedly a half a ton of angry pot roast!)

Out came the matador,

Who must have been potted or

Slightly insane, but who looked rather bored.

Then the picadors of course,

Each one on his horse.

I shouted "olé!" ev'ry time one was gored.

I cheered at the banderilleros' 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

Got run over.

(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.

In that moment of truth I suddenly knew

That someone had stolen my wallet.

Now it's fiesta time in Akron, Ohio

But it's back to old Guadalajara I'm longing

to go.

Far away from the strikes of the A. F. of L.

and C. I. O.

How I wish I could get back

To the land of the wetback

And forget the Alamo

In old Mexico.

Olé!