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Musical: Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris
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On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they are 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 the time when grocery clerks become Don Juan It's the time when all ugly girls Turn into swans, aaahh. Who can say of what he's found That bull who turns and paws the ground And suddenly he s ees himself all nude, aaahh. Who can say of what he dreams That bull who hears the silent screams From the open mouths of multitudes Olé! On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they are asked to suffer for us There are the picadors and the mobs revenge There are the toreros, and the mob kneels for us It's the time when grocery clerks become García Lorca And the girls put roses in their teeth like Carmen On Sundays the bulls get so bored When they are asked to drop dead for us The sword will plunge down and the mob will drool The blood will pour down and turn the sand to mud. Olé, olé! The moment of triumph when grocery clerks become Nero The moment of triumph when the girls scream and shout The name of their hero, aaahh. And when finally they fell Did not the bulls dream of some hell Where men and worn-out matadors still burn, aaahh. Or perhaps with their last breaths Would not they pardon us their deaths Knowing w hat we did at Carthage--olé!--Waterloo--olé!--Verdun--olé! Stalingrad--olé!--Iwo Jima--olé!--Hiroshima--olé!--Saigon!
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