Mononucleosic ballade of James Coburn in Alto Verde

Tall and angular, like a dolichocephalic effigy from Isla de Pascua in Metrocolor - more macho and more gaucho and more guacho than the machoest and the gauchoest and the guachoest: 
why does why does, why does James Coburn spit gasoline on the seca of the terrain?
The craggy face rides lonesome with a metralleta stolen in Riobamba
a guerrillero trying to be happy without scars on the craggy face of the Earth: nobody ever knew who was the ghost: he or his horse.
The filibustero extracts a rolling paper from his fieltro hat and rolls a cigarrillo
the cigarro is brown, stuck to his lips, forming one only surface, which gets annihilated by the nephritis of the air:
his chinese eyes observe the town from the distance, it's Alto Verde, the nearest Sodom before Mexicali.
Isn't this the Gringo who's wanted dead or alive by the authorities of Santa Fe?
Isn't this the man whose head is priced at 200 dollars in nickel?
Running away, the Gringo, escaping away from Bronson and Calvera
running away, the Loco, galloping on the cold mesetas at night, cheesed by the moon.




Now, the horse snorts when the macho dismounts: his acromegalic hands hold the binoculars:
in front of his eyes appear the 101 Indian nations, distorted and italianized by the vapor of the atmosphere
now.
He leaves the equine tied to a fulminated fig tree and descends to the tolderías walking down like a Hottentot:
in his teeth a silver bullet shines under a sun that's not European.
The Cacique gets out of his concubinizing tent and salutes with a hand of stone raised in the air:
the filibustero extracts a rolling paper from his fieltro hat and rolls a cigarrillo
the cigarro is brown, stuck to his lips, forming one only surface, which gets annihilated by the amygdalitis of the wind.