Down cobblestone streets is where I find a fair.

Don’t know the language but don’t even care.

There’s tapas and churros and games I can win,

In the heart of Pamplona here for San Fermin.

We dance and we laugh, like a kid with a doll.

We watch the bullfights as we sit in the sol.

In the morning after, still wearing our wine,

We join the masses and get into the line.

A shot fires once and we all start to run,

Then focussing firmly, with the next from the gun.

The oxen run past, followed close by the bulls,

Chaos ensues — survival the only rule.

We push in the panic, we put ourselves first,

Regretting the aftermath of last nights thirst.

But alas, we survive with a tale for mates,

As we make it inside the Arena’s gates.

That night we party like it was our last,

A possibility if we slipped in the past.

We get drunk again and blend in like fools,

All part of the fun when you’re running with bulls.