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lyrics

On Sundays the bulls get bored
When they’re asked to run for us
Here’s the sand, some sun and a sword
A little mud, it’ll make a little blood

It’s the hour that the grocers think that they’re Don Juan
It’s the hour that the English think they’re Henry de Montherlant - ahh

Who can tell just what it’s thinking
A bull that’s turning as it’s dancing
Suddenly seeing that it’s all alone
Who can tell just what its dreaming,
A bull that’s eyes are slowly sinking
When it realises it’s got the cuckold’s horns

On Sundays, the bulls get bored
When they’re made to suffer for us
On his horse here comes the picador
And the toreador, whose swords’s gonna plunge

It’s the hour that the grocers think they’re Garcia Lorca
It’s the hour that the girls think that they’re Carmen Citra

On Sundays the bulls get bored
When they wait to die for us
The crowd’s here for the sword
And it’s cheering at the sight of the blood

And now the grocers think that there Nero
And now the English think that they’re Wellington - OH

I wonder if, as they fell
The bulls dreamt of a hell
Where men and bullfighters are all out run

Or in the moment that they die
Do they pardon you and I
And think of Carthage, Waterloo and Verdun
Verdun

credits

from Collecting Brel - Vol. 1, released March 1, 2019

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Collecting Brel Bristol, UK

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