Village life in Andalucia

Rain, rain, rain,

Its raining so you can’t see your hand in front of your face. . .

Rain, rain, rain

The Pueblo’s concrete, nothing soaks away. . .

Rain, rain, rain,

The water shoots straight off the roofs into the street . . .

Rain, rain, rain

The terraces turn to waterfalls. They overflow into the one below. . .

Rain, rain, rain,

Can’t get up to the bar. The steps are torrents, the patios are rock pools. . .

Rain, rain, rain,

The storm-drain’s blocked by a tree, the streets are mud slurries. . .

Rain, rain, rain,

Someone parked his car on the river bed. Its sailing away to Torre . . .

Rain, rain, rain,

Everyone’s laughing, everyone’s waving, everyone’s wet. . .

Rain, rain, rain.