Down to a Banana Republic, down to the tropical sun. Come all the expatriated Americans expecting to have some fun. Some of them come for the sailing drawn by the lure of the sea. To cure the spirit that's ailing from living in the land of the free. Now, some of them are running from lovers, leaving no forward address. And some of them are running marijuana, and some are running from the IRS.
Late at night you can see them in the cheap hotels and bars. Hustling the senoritas as they dance beneath the stars. Spending the renegade pesos on a bottle of rum and a lime. Singing, give me some words I can dance to and a melody that rhymes.
Once you learn the native customs and a word of Spanish or two. Then you know you can't trust them because they know they can't trust you. And down in Banana Republics it is not always as warm as it seems. When none of the natives are buying any second-hand American Dreams. The Expatriated Americans are feeling so all alone. Telling themselves the same lies that they told themselves at home.
And late at night you can see them in the cheap hotels and bars. Hustling the senoritas as they dance beneath the stars. Spending the renegade pesos on a bottle of rum and a lime. Singing, give me some words I can dance to and a melody that rhymes.