| In the new hotel, on Fiesta Night, the staff are bored;
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| Donna Ysabel dances zombie-like, the guests applaud…
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| The color is local, the tourists are tanned
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| The natives are restless and everything’s second-hand
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| Places disappear, but the names endure as alibis;
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| Memory’s hazy here, no-one's really sure of how time flies…
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| Well drunk, the bass player cries into his beer —
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| Are Ysabel’s mother or Ysabel dancing here?
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| After hours all the couriers are in the bar
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| Round the corner with the drivers in a game of cards…
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| In bursts Ysabel, her hair let loose, her limbs set free;
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| On the tabletops she’s dancing to a memory —
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| Conversation stops and every eye is turned to see…
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| Something about Ysabel’s dance
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| It’s a shrinking world, it’s a fun-packed cruise, a museum trip:
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| Skirt the native girl, check the rabid dog, rejoin the ship
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| There’s no Charlie Mingus, his Tijuana’s gone…
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| This smile for the camera is all just a tourist con
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| But after hours all the couriers and drivers know
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| Of a cantina where there’s every chance that she might show;
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| And maybe Ysabel will dance the dance for real again
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| Her mother’s footsteps, vice and virtue, lust and love and pain
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| There’s something here the anthropologist dare not explain
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| Something about Ysabel’s dance… |