How I love the kisses of Dolores,
Ay, ay, ay, Dolores;
Not Marie or Emily or Doris
Only my Dolores.
From a balcony above me,
She whispers, "Love me," and throws a rose.
Ah, but she is twice as lovely as the rose she throws.
I would die to be with my Dolores,
Ay, ay, ay, Dolores;
I was made to serenade Dolores,
Chorus after Chorus.
Just imagine eyes like moonrise,
A voice like music, and lips like wine.
What a break if I could make Dolores mine all mine.