When it's fiesta time in Guadalajara,nThen I long to be back once againnIn Old Mexico.nWhere we lived for today, never giving a thought to tomahra.nTo the strumming of guitars,nIn a hundred grubby barsnI would whisper Te amo.nnThe mariachis would serenade,nAnd they would not shut up till they were paid.nWe ate, we drank, and we were merry,nAnd we got typhoid and dysentery.nnBut best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros.nNow whenever I start feeling morose,nI revive by recalling that scene.nAnd names like Belmonte, Domingu'in, and Manolete,nIf I live to a hundred and eighty,nI shall never forget what they mean.nn''For there is surely nothing more beautiful in thisnworld than the sight of a lone man facing single-handedlyna half a ton of angry pot roast!''nnOut came the matador,nWho must have been potted ornSlightly insane, but who looked rather bored.nThen the picadors of course,nEach one on his horse,nI shouted „Olé!“ evry time one was gored.nnI cheered at the banderilleros' display,nAs they stuck the bull in their own clever way,nFor I hadn't had so much fun since the daynMy brother's dog RovernGot run over.nn''Rover was killed by a Pontiac. And it was donenwith such grace and artistry that the witnesses awarded thendriver both ears and the tail – but I digress...''nnThe moment had come,nI swallowed my gum,nWe knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon.nThe crowd held its breath,nHoping that deathnWould brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.nnAt last, the matador did what we wanted him to,nHe raised his sword and his aim was true.nIn that moment of truth, I suddenly knewnThat someone had stolen my wallet.nnNow it's fiesta time in Akron, Ohio,nBut it's back to old Guadalajara I'm longing to go.nFar away from the strikes of the A.F. of L. and C.I.O.nHow I wish I could get backnTo the land of the wetback,nAnd forget the Alamo,nIn Old Mexico. Olé!