| Unburdened of their passengers
|
| The taxis have all scattered
|
| The hawkers move their tables out
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| They’ll be selling no more leather
|
| The Oslo Queen is set to sail
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| From the Port of Buenos Aires
|
| The ropes are thrown and the big horn moans
|
| As she slips out of the harbor
|
| The stowaway is keeping still
|
| In the dark of his container
|
| With his blanket and his flashlight
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| And a picture of his sweetheart
|
| He’s rationing his batteries
|
| But right now he can’t resist her
|
| Standing there with her long brown hair
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| In that Che Guevara t-shirt
|
| As the contents of his wallet show
|
| His plan’s a little sketchy
|
| Three hundred bucks and the bad address
|
| Of a cousin in Miami
|
| In a couple months with a little luck
|
| He’ll be wiring home some money
|
| And even if they send him back
|
| It’ll make a damn good story
|
| Late at night he ventures out
|
| Each time a little farther
|
| Emboldened by his wanderlust
|
| His boredom, and his hunger
|
| Til he’s standing out on the open deck
|
| Searching for La Cruz del Sur
|
| But by-and-by the sky he knows
|
| Has yielded to another
|
| The moon shines on the shipping lanes
|
| Off the coast of Venezuela
|
| And as he looks out at the oilers
|
| Riding heavy up to Texas
|
| He sings a little to himself
|
| Luna, luna, luna llena
|
| While the moon, a word he’s yet to learn
|
| Betrays him to the cameras
|
| Now he’s somewhere in Dade County
|
| And six weeks without a lawyer
|
| On the basis of the evidence
|
| They could keep him there forever
|
| The guy with the cuban accent says
|
| «Do you recognize this picture?»
|
| And there she is with her long brown hair
|
| And that Che Guevara t-shirt |