The Bulls

Every Sunday the bulls are bored

When they have to run for us
A little sand, some sun and boards

A little blood to make a little mud
That's when the shopkeepers think they're Don Juan

That's when the English ladies think they're Montherlant
Ah!
Who will tell us what it's thinking

A bull that's turning and dancing

And suddenly sees that he's completely naked

Ah!
Who will tell us what it's dreaming

A bull whose eye is looking up

And who discovers he's wearing the cuckolds' horns

Every Sunday the bulls are bored

When they have to suffer for us
Here are the picadors and the crowd takes revenge

Here are the toreros and the crowd's on its knees
That's when the shop-keepers think they're Garcia Lorca

That's when the English ladies think they're la Carmencita

Every Sunday the bulls are bored

When they have to die for us
Now the sword's going in and the crowd leans forward

Now the sword's gone in and the crowd's on its feet
That's the moment of triumph when the shop-keepers think they're Nero

That's the moment of triumph when the English ladies think they're Wellington
As they're falling to the ground

The bulls are dreaming of a hell

Where dead men and toreros are ablaze

Ah!
Or at the moment when they die

Might they perhaps not pardon us

Thinking of Carthage, Waterloo, and Verdun
 Verdun


Lyrics submitted by epiwoosh

Les Toros (The Bulls - English translation) song meanings
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