The Moustachioed Bandolero feat. Eme Latina

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V5.5

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This only came about because Eme encouraged me to try to wrote a flamenco song ages ago. Well, I finally made myself do it! I hope you like my first shot!

Seriously Eme, thanks for always being so ready and willing to help me out or hit me up. You're a bright, shining gem here, and your immense talent is almost as inspirational as your kindness. Please forgive my beginner's attempts at Spanish, but you understand why I (rather cheekily) only asked you for help with that fifth verse. It really is the best part, and your touch is the clear reason. Never stop writing, my friend.

If you've somehow never heard her work, PLEASE visit her page and show her some love. 
https://suno.com/@emelatina

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In the hill, there’s a hidden house,
lock and ledger, dust and stone,
where the old world coughs up wonders
and they box them up like bones.

Sword of kings and desert engine,
ice that talks and will not die,
I was green and on my first day,
still la sombra marked my eye.

Ay, qué oficio they gave me.
Ay, what a room to sweep.
Guard the devil’s souvenirs, boy,
and don’t let the nightmares keep.

Then the shelves began to rattle,
then the hall began to groan,
then the spiders came in black waves
with la bruja driving on.

Crooked grin and widow’s cackle,
Bone Mother, straight from hell,
she came riding little monsters
while the whole damn warehouse fell.

Ay, la bruja’s laughing.
Ay, hear the timbers crack.
Si el mal entra bailando,
you’d better dance it back.

Un puerta rose where no wall was.
Don’t ask me how it stood.
We threw ourselves right through it
into beer and lamps and wood.

Families and warm pretzels,
Tapas, wine, and little kids;
I barred la puerta, spiders crashed:
Hail on my coffin lid.

Then I saw him at the bar there,
pretending he wasn’t waiting,
white shirt, white pants, red faja,
hair shining, hackles raising.

Lightning wit and brow like thunder,
fine moustache and wicked eyes.
The Moustachioed Bandolero.
Dios, I hated him on sight.

Ay, mírame, Bandolero,
you peacock, you painted knife.
Si el infierno araña la puerta,
one word can cost your life.

Then the door took one more beating, 
and the mothers pulled their young.
He flashed that half-smile at me;
a dare to act as one.

I nodded, and he nodded back;
un tablao para dos leones.
Esa bruja nunca había visto algo así: 
dos mamones con buenos tacones.

Fine!

Fine.
But not for love.
No, not for peace.
Not because he’s worth a damn.
I'll save this poor taberna
just to upstage this man.

In they poured, all leg and malice;
I learned that spiders have bad breath,
The pub became our stage then,
and we danced the dance of death.

He cut circles like a bravo,
I drove sparks up from the planks,
we threw scorn into the compás
to earn La Parca’s thanks.

Tacón y tacón, vuelta y burla,
clap and laugh and let her seethe,
for there’s nothing hates a bruja more
than proud men who won’t concede.

Then the spiders curled like paper,
with her cackle torn in two,
and she fell into the sawdust
as all legends someday do.

Ay, mira, Bandolero,
I know your smile’s pretense.
Pero cuando vienen diablos,
tú sí sabes enseñar los dientes.

Ay, Moustachioed Bandolero.
Ay, red sash in amber light.
Si el infierno araña la puerta,
I’d bet on us to win the fight.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This song was inspired by a dream I had years ago, back during the Beijing Sumer Olympics. I remember seeing a Head & Shoulders shampoo commercial that featured a man with ridiculously good hair running with the bulls in Spain, and I think my subconscious took exception to his photogenic fortune. The dream as I will never forget it is as follows:

The scene is set, a warehouse hidden away in rural rolling hills. I'm being guided through it, as it's my first day on the job. I will be responsible not only for the security of the esoteric objects within, but also for their retrieval as intelligence arrives as to the whereabouts of new findings.

These aren't just old doodads, oh no. These are true artifacts. Things like a mana machine found in the dunes of an Iraqi desert, the literal Sword of Damocles, and the actual iceberg that sank the Titanic (it turned out to be a sentient, unmelting iceberg. Nice fellow, he was just going through rough patch with his Aunt, Arctica and was acting out). Those types of esoteric artifacts.

As my first-day tour transitions to meeting my senior retrieval agents, we start to hear a deep crashing. It's gets louder and we also hear a growing chittering. We see the shelfs of boxes and artifacts timber over, crashing into each other in a domino cascade as a massive, dark wave of spiders overcomes them. We catch a glimpse of some sort of Baba Yaga witch creature amidst the swirling mass of spiders. She cackles as she bear down on us.

We bolt away, angling for escape. Desperate, one of us wrenches open a door standing bolt upright on the ground floor of a shelf. It stands alone, leaning against nothing and not installed in any walls. Walking through this inexplicable doorway, we stumble into a cozy pub and family-style eatery. The place feels cozy, and the soft pretzels looked divine, but we have no time to enjoy then, not with the Baba Yaga and her spiders bearing down on us.

I slam the door shut and bar it, leaning up against it with my new coworkers to brace for impact. The spiders crash against the cold door, and my stomach settles with ice in its pit. We won't be able to hold it. Then I see him; my rival. He leans dramatically against the bar, posted as if he knew I'd come to this extra dimensional pub and family-style restaurant. He waited here for me.

There's an anime-style stare down as we glare heated daggers into each other's eye sockets. He appears dressed to run with the bulls: white pants, white shirt, and a long, red sash. His brow is strong, his skin is tan, his hair is perfectly thick, lush, and black. His name is The Moustachioed Bandolero.

The glare lasts forever in the way dreams do, but we snap out of that heated hateful reverie as the spiders crash into the door once more. My rival and I, we want nothing more than to stomp one another into the dust, but there're families here, and scared people trying to enjoy their evenings. This is no time to fight. At least, not each other. We lock gazes again, this time nodding. Intense, dramatic flamenco music starts (for those familiar, it was almost exactly Nobuo Uematsu's "Vamo'alla flamenco").

Bando (the cute nickname I have for him now) joins me at the door and we set our feet. We are about to stomp these spiders and their witch into submission.

We fling the door open, the spiders swarm in and people scream, but the flames from our gazes and our expert dancing steps somehow keep them at bay. The pub and family-style restaurant becomes our stage as we channel our hate for each other into a dramatic spell of protection, and in a matter of a song and dance number, we vanquish the spiders, the Baba Yaga lying defeated at our feet. We lock eyes a final time and clasp hands; He may be my fiercest rival, but dammit, the man can dance.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

7385/7500

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This only came about because Eme encouraged me to try to wrote a flamenco song ages ago. Well, I finally made myself do it! I hope you like my first shot! Seriously Eme, thanks for always being so ready and willing to help me out or hit me up. You're a bright, shining gem here, and your immense talent is almost as inspirational as your kindness. Please forgive my beginner's attempts at Spanish, but you understand why I (rather cheekily) only asked you for help with that fifth verse. It really is the best part, and your touch is the clear reason. Never stop writing, my friend. If you've somehow never heard her work, PLEASE visit her page and show her some love. https://suno.com/@emelatina ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In the hill, there’s a hidden house, lock and ledger, dust and stone, where the old world coughs up wonders and they box them up like bones. Sword of kings and desert engine, ice that talks and will not die, I was green and on my first day, still la sombra marked my eye. Ay, qué oficio they gave me. Ay, what a room to sweep. Guard the devil’s souvenirs, boy, and don’t let the nightmares keep. Then the shelves began to rattle, then the hall began to groan, then the spiders came in black waves with la bruja driving on. Crooked grin and widow’s cackle, Bone Mother, straight from hell, she came riding little monsters while the whole damn warehouse fell. Ay, la bruja’s laughing. Ay, hear the timbers crack. Si el mal entra bailando, you’d better dance it back. Un puerta rose where no wall was. Don’t ask me how it stood. We threw ourselves right through it into beer and lamps and wood. Families and warm pretzels, Tapas, wine, and little kids; I barred la puerta, spiders crashed: Hail on my coffin lid. Then I saw him at the bar there, pretending he wasn’t waiting, white shirt, white pants, red faja, hair shining, hackles raising. Lightning wit and brow like thunder, fine moustache and wicked eyes. The Moustachioed Bandolero. Dios, I hated him on sight. Ay, mírame, Bandolero, you peacock, you painted knife. Si el infierno araña la puerta, one word can cost your life. Then the door took one more beating, and the mothers pulled their young. He flashed that half-smile at me; a dare to act as one. I nodded, and he nodded back; un tablao para dos leones. Esa bruja nunca había visto algo así: dos mamones con buenos tacones. Fine! Fine. But not for love. No, not for peace. Not because he’s worth a damn. I'll save this poor taberna just to upstage this man. In they poured, all leg and malice; I learned that spiders have bad breath, The pub became our stage then, and we danced the dance of death. He cut circles like a bravo, I drove sparks up from the planks, we threw scorn into the compás to earn La Parca’s thanks. Tacón y tacón, vuelta y burla, clap and laugh and let her seethe, for there’s nothing hates a bruja more than proud men who won’t concede. Then the spiders curled like paper, with her cackle torn in two, and she fell into the sawdust as all legends someday do. Ay, mira, Bandolero, I know your smile’s pretense. Pero cuando vienen diablos, tú sí sabes enseñar los dientes. Ay, Moustachioed Bandolero. Ay, red sash in amber light. Si el infierno araña la puerta, I’d bet on us to win the fight. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This song was inspired by a dream I had years ago, back during the Beijing Sumer Olympics. I remember seeing a Head & Shoulders shampoo commercial that featured a man with ridiculously good hair running with the bulls in Spain, and I think my subconscious took exception to his photogenic fortune. The dream as I will never forget it is as follows: The scene is set, a warehouse hidden away in rural rolling hills. I'm being guided through it, as it's my first day on the job. I will be responsible not only for the security of the esoteric objects within, but also for their retrieval as intelligence arrives as to the whereabouts of new findings. These aren't just old doodads, oh no. These are true artifacts. Things like a mana machine found in the dunes of an Iraqi desert, the literal Sword of Damocles, and the actual iceberg that sank the Titanic (it turned out to be a sentient, unmelting iceberg. Nice fellow, he was just going through rough patch with his Aunt, Arctica and was acting out). Those types of esoteric artifacts. As my first-day tour transitions to meeting my senior retrieval agents, we start to hear a deep crashing. It's gets louder and we also hear a growing chittering. We see the shelfs of boxes and artifacts timber over, crashing into each other in a domino cascade as a massive, dark wave of spiders overcomes them. We catch a glimpse of some sort of Baba Yaga witch creature amidst the swirling mass of spiders. She cackles as she bear down on us. We bolt away, angling for escape. Desperate, one of us wrenches open a door standing bolt upright on the ground floor of a shelf. It stands alone, leaning against nothing and not installed in any walls. Walking through this inexplicable doorway, we stumble into a cozy pub and family-style eatery. The place feels cozy, and the soft pretzels looked divine, but we have no time to enjoy then, not with the Baba Yaga and her spiders bearing down on us. I slam the door shut and bar it, leaning up against it with my new coworkers to brace for impact. The spiders crash against the cold door, and my stomach settles with ice in its pit. We won't be able to hold it. Then I see him; my rival. He leans dramatically against the bar, posted as if he knew I'd come to this extra dimensional pub and family-style restaurant. He waited here for me. There's an anime-style stare down as we glare heated daggers into each other's eye sockets. He appears dressed to run with the bulls: white pants, white shirt, and a long, red sash. His brow is strong, his skin is tan, his hair is perfectly thick, lush, and black. His name is The Moustachioed Bandolero. The glare lasts forever in the way dreams do, but we snap out of that heated hateful reverie as the spiders crash into the door once more. My rival and I, we want nothing more than to stomp one another into the dust, but there're families here, and scared people trying to enjoy their evenings. This is no time to fight. At least, not each other. We lock gazes again, this time nodding. Intense, dramatic flamenco music starts (for those familiar, it was almost exactly Nobuo Uematsu's "Vamo'alla flamenco"). Bando (the cute nickname I have for him now) joins me at the door and we set our feet. We are about to stomp these spiders and their witch into submission. We fling the door open, the spiders swarm in and people scream, but the flames from our gazes and our expert dancing steps somehow keep them at bay. The pub and family-style restaurant becomes our stage as we channel our hate for each other into a dramatic spell of protection, and in a matter of a song and dance number, we vanquish the spiders, the Baba Yaga lying defeated at our feet. We lock eyes a final time and clasp hands; He may be my fiercest rival, but dammit, the man can dance. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ © 2026 The Badfatler All rights reserved.

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