I feel a hot wind on my shoulder
And the touch of a world that is older
I turn the switch and check the number
I leave it on when in bed I slumber
I hear the rhythms of the music
I buy the product, and never use it
I hear the talking of the deejay
Can't understand––just what does he say?
Chorus:
I'm on a mexican radio
I'm on a mexican, woah-ho, radio
I wish I was in Tijuana
Eating barbecued iguana
I'd take requests on the telephone
I'm on a wavelength far from home
I feel a hot wind on my shoulder
I dial it in from south of the border
I hear the talking of the deejay
Can't understand––just what does he say?