| I met him in old Mexico
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| He was laughing sad and young
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| In a smokey room where no one could see
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| His favorite poets all agreed
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| Spanish is a loving tongue
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| But he never spoke Spanish to me
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| He was born in Monterrey
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| All the Christmas songs were sung
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| And Padre knew what he’d grow up to be
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| Saints and sinners all agree
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| Spanish is a loving tongue
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| But he never spoke Spanish to me
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| Like a lion screaming in the jungle low
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| He never fooled with things he couldn’t see
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| He spoke to all the shadows in his bungalow
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| But he never spoke Spanish to me
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| He said if you’re from Texas, woman
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| Where’s your boots and where’s your gun
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| And I smiled and said I got guns that no one can see
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| Well, we laughed at that, we both agreed
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| Spanish is a loving tongue
|
| But he never spoke Spanish to me
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| I left him in old Mexico
|
| He was laughing sad and young
|
| In a smokey room where no one could see
|
| His favorite poets all agreed
|
| Spanish is a loving tongue
|
| But he never spoke Spanish to me
|
| No, he never spoke Spanish to me |