Down to the Banana Republics, down to the tropical sun,
go the expatriated Americans, hopin' to find some fun.
Some of them go for the sailing, caught by the lure of the sea.
Tryin' to find what is ailing, livin' in the land of the free.
Some of them are running from lovers, leaving no foreward address.
Some of them are running tons of ganja,
some are running from the I.R.S.
First you learn the native customs,
soon a word of spanish or two.
You know that you cannot trust them,
'cause they know they can't trust you.
Expatriated Americans, feelin' so all alone,
telling themselves the same lies
that they told themselves back home.
(solo) -play - -
Down to the Banana Republics, things aren't as warm as they seem,
none of the natives are buying any second-hand American dreams.
Down to the Banana Republics, down to the tropical sun;
go the expatriated Americans hopin' to find some fun.
(repeat chords and fade)
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