Margot

You can see it from afar, you abacanada wench!
that you were born in the misery of a convent in the suburbs...
Because there is something that sells you, I don't know if it's the look,
the way you sit, the way you look, the way you stand...
or that body accustomed to the percale pilchas.
That body that today marks the tempting beats of the canyengue of some tango
of the canyengue of some tango in the arms of some gil,
while your silhouette and your colorful suit triumphs,
between the smoke of the cigars and the champagne of Armenonville.

They are macanas, it wasn't a handsome lazy or arrogant man
nor a cafisho of breakdowns that sent you to the vice...
You rolled because of you and it wasn't innocently...
you had in your mind since the day a bacana magnate
since the day a cigarette magnate sharpened you!

I remember, you had almost nothing to wear,
today you wear silk trousseau with rococo roses,
I hate your presence... I'd pay not to see you...
even your name has been changed, as you have changed your luck:
you are no longer my Margarita, now they call you Margot!

Now you're going with the otarios to have a great time
to a luxurious room at the Petit or the Julien,
and your old lady, poor old lady! she washes all week long
to be able to stop the pot, with Franciscan poverty,
in the sad, kerosene-lit tenement.