Torero

You lose sleep over the tabloids
And your mom's on your case
And your dad's getting mad,
These smoke clouds are messing with your head
Looking at yourself in the mirror
You want to be a bullfighter
Like they do in Santa Fe, like they do in Hollywood
And with this excuse, hey man, you’re not studying anymore

Oh! bullfighter!
You’ve got that sombrero on your head
Saying you’re Spanish, but that’s not true
That maracas in your bag are ready to dance
Mixing bolero
With samba and cha-cha-cha
Hey bullfighter
With those sideburns from South America
With a hitman from Havana
And that shirt of yours, why?
Bullfighter, bullfighter, olé

You’ve got those short, short pants,
That tight little ass
Or that curly hair in front
People are laughing behind you, but you don’t care
You feel like Marlon Brando
Just strutting away
Through the streets of Santa Fe
Through the streets of Hollywood
And your girl doesn’t want you anymore

Oh! bullfighter...