Anybody around knew that the miners around the Rocky Mountains made the Coors Beer famous around 1873?
When you are thirst, far away from home, longing, I said thirst? you don't want to settle for second best, that ain't right, momma would frown at it and father will chase you out the porch.
Coors?...of course! that's A-me-ri-can!!!

The thermometer says 94 degrees in the shadows,
not a good time to go walking about, siesta's on,
Summer's spreading tourists on the beaches sands,
with suddenly noises and business closing down.

Mallorca's palm trees giving halting shadows to
a thirsty, die-hard, beer-chasing for that Coors
around a Spain going all the way for a Budweiser,
figured my beer chasing going to be but very long.

After sweating the obligatory hot afternoon quota,
found by the shadow, an empty table by the sidewalk
of a bar named Torres, thirty yards from the beach
with girls in bikinis looking for an spanish matador.

Sipping the coldest beer; olives, tapas and aioli
to be washed down you must have, of course you do,
giving all the strength one can muster to imagine
the softness of the skin no reached by the sun.

Contemplating many delicious round romping things,
I was planning for garlic shrimps, lobster dinner, the lot,
with an humongous Paella to tease well all palates
but undecided about the wine's years or its chateau.

Don't misunderstand me, half empty or hal full
doesn't matter for me, because I don't drink a lot,
but I like my rum to be a dark Captain Morgan, and,
for aperitif, a good Cinzano Rosé, but on the rocks.

Sitting and looking at bathing people in the sea,
longingly wondered what if suddenly I wasn't "that" old,
go jumping from my chair and without breaking a sweat,
chase a Spanish girl, instead of an American Coors.