| You see them in old Havana,
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| Playing cards, smoking cigares …
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| And their polishing crome fenders
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| On their big old yankee cars.
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| Manuel sits in la casa de rosa,
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| Drinking rum, watching the girls …
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| He whistles at the beautiful Maria
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| And she smiles and tosses her girls.
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| Now the bartender strums his guitar
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| And the rhythm plays out in the street.
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| Maria moves with the passion
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| As her body sways in the heat.
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| And the old guys, smiling with pleasure,
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| For a moment they’re young and they’re strong.
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| And the young girls are giving them flowers
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| As they sing their victory song.
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| REFRAIN:
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| Once we were bold companeros,
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| Running guns from the Florida keys,
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| On the beach from Santiago to Cuba,
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| We were figting with Fidel and Che.
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| He talks of the great revolution
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| In words of sadness and pride.
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| And the medals he wears
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| Are the scars that he bears —
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| And he drinks for the friends who died.
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| We were farmers, we were poets and we were hungry.
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| All we wanted was our own peace of land.
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| We were fighting for our wives and children
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| And freedom for every man!
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| REFRAIN
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| Now the yankees come for the fishing
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| And their pockets are loaded with greens.
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| Ten dollars will buy you a woman
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| or a tank of gasoline.
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| And the young kids are leaving the island
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| And the old guys have nothing to say.
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| Manuel is living on dreams of the past
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| And tonight he’ll drink it away …
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| REFRAIN |