The Men of Seville are, they say,
The laziest of Spain.
Consummate artists in delay,
Allergical to strain;
Fr if you have a job for them,
And beg them to be spry,
They only look at you with phlegm:
“Mañana,” they reply.
The Men of gay Madrid, I’m told,
Siesta’s law revere;
The custom is so ages old,
And to tradition dear;
So if you want a job done soon,
And shyly ask them: “When?”
They say: “Come back this afternoon:
We’ll hope to do it them.”
The Men of Barcelona are
Such mostly little caps,
That when you see them from afar
They make you think of Japs;
Yet they can take life on the run,
Quite peppy, I’ll allow,
For when there’s something to be done,
They shout: “We’ll do it NOW.”
