(uno, dos, tres, quatro)
Last night inside the fascist bar
We toasted the arrival of the matador
The tapas greasy, and the beer was warm
Juan and the barman talked about the coming storm
I thought about the fight that I had seen
I made a joke, the barman even smiled a little
The heat was close, closer than we'd ever been
It made the conversation short and brittle
We climbed the spiral staircase to our room
It folded in around us like a tomb
Downstairs, Los Toros played the ancient hits
Shutter caught the wind and banged against the wall
One day this thing is gonna fall to bits
I wondered what the bull had thought about it all
We shuddered underneath the sheets
Eventually the roadie brought some relief
I borrowed images from the spanish deep
The matador paraded through my dreams
In the morning, in the market square
He passed along ten feet away now, I suppose
Though I remember him with shorter hair
I never saw the ring fettered through his nose
The storm had passed, the earth at peace
Still this great foreboding, this unease
Then it hit me, I sensed his greedy eye
The skin across his face was grey and bovine
I screamed, and when he turned to say goodbye
The hand that he held out to me was cloven