Dry ice is on the gory spot; it’s throbbing where I’m scored.
I was trampled in this village, where my aching abs were gored.
Here’s hope in the fateful fighting, the terror bull gets the sword.
My tooth, I think, is gone.

Gory, gory la corrida.
I gave the cops a mordida.
Algo en boca, perdida.
My tooth, I think, is gone.

I am bleeding from the notch where the horn pricked me down in Pamp’.
Oh, my limbs have been quite altered; they have even got a cramp.
They have swaddled me in bandages that now are getting damp.
The tube is in my arm.

[Alternate verse]
I am bleeding from the notch where the horn pricked me down in Pamp’.
Bet my bill will be muy alta; much dinero will decamp.
They have swaddled me in bandages that now are getting damp.
The tube is in my arm.

Gory, gory la corrida.
Squashed me on the avenida.
I’d had too many bebidas.
The tube is in my arm.

In the ring the matador prepares his sword of burnished steel.
In the hospital the morphine hits me, and I cannot feel.
And the nurse throws out my shoes because there’s bullshit on the heel.
My Gucci marchers gone.

Gory, gory la corrida.
¿Cómo va a la lidia?
Have to wear some zapatillas.
My Gucci marchers gone.

There’s a morphine pump, I pump it; the sensation is so sweet.
As my heart pumps it through my veins, I am numb from head to feet.
So much better than the stuff I typically buy on the street.
Those poppy pods were strong.

Gory, gory la corrida.
¡Mierda! hospital comida.
Muzak here is not “Aida.”
What is the pop-schlock song?!

Now I cannot feel my willie, but I think I’ve got to pee.
I’m imploring that a bedpan be a high priority.
Though I try to wait and hold it. . .high tide: enuresis sea!
My rod’s stream’s arcing on.

Pouring, pouring, the urethra.
Forget going to Ibiza.
Mi bicho no es arida.
My rod’s stream’s arcing on.

Pouring, pouring, the urethra.
Forget going to Ibiza.
Mi vejiga, no arida.
Oh, I feel something warm.