you see them in old havana,
playing cards, smoking cigares …
and their polishing crome fenders
on their big old yankee cars.
manuel sits in la casa de rosa,
drinking rum, watching the girls …
he whistles at the beautiful maria
and she smiles and tosses her girls.
now the bartender strums his guitar
and the rhythm plays out in the street.
maria moves with the p*ssion
as her body sways in the heat.
and the old guys, smiling with pleasure,
for a moment they’re young and they’re strong.
and the young girls are giving them flowers
as they sing their victory song.
once we were bold companeros,
running guns from the florida keys,
on the beach from santiago to cuba,
we were figting with fidel and che.
he talks of the great revolution
in words of sadness and pride.
and the medals he wears
are the scars that he bears –
and he drinks for the friends who died.
we were farmers, we were poets and we were hungry.
all we wanted was our own peace of land.
we were fighting for our wives and children
and freedom for every man!
now the yankees come for the fishing
and their pockets are loaded with greens.
ten dollars will buy you a woman
or a tank of gasoline.
and the young kids are leaving the island
and the old guys have nothing to say.
manuel is living on dreams of the past
and tonight he’ll drink it away …