At Guantanamo Bay, we're confined to our quarters;
We’re scratching, and swearing, and waiting for orders;
We're watching the harbors; we're counting the wrecks; And we're wondering which we'll be shipping on next.
At Guantanamo Bay — call her Gitmo for short —
Not much of a base, much less of a port.
One look at the docks, and you know that you're seein', The Goddamnedest hole in the whole Caribbean.
So hurrah for Old Gitmo on Cuba's fair shore;
The home of the cockroach, the flea, and the whore. We'll sing her fair praises and pray for the day We'll get the hell out of Guantanamo Bay.
Here you pay twenty cents for a bottle of beer; They call it Hatuey, and it tastes mighty queer. There's an Indian chief on the label to show The Indian sign makes you go, go, £o, go.
Guantanamo City has hundreds of doors,
And each one's jammed up with hundreds of whores. They hang from the windows with stark naked chests ۔ And knock out your brains with low-hanging breasts.
Well, the boys in my outfit are workin' a plan. We're savin’ each nickel and dollar we can,
And we'll buy T.N.T. and one sunny day
We'll blow up this Goddamned Guantanamo Bay.
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