Palermo

Damn you, Palermo!
You've got me dry and sick,
poorly dressed and without food,
because the wind on Sundays
I skate with the pingos
at the Hache Nacional.
To look for the one who doesn't lose
I choke on the Green
and I study my pedigree
and in spite of the primer
I go to the window
all the work of the month.

Berretines I have with the pingos,
the messes of every Sunday...
It's your fault that I'm so tired...
What can I do, that's the way it should be!
Illusions of the old man and the old woman
are being left undone in the sand
by the legs of a snoring tungo...
What can I do if I'm a gambler!

Palermo, cradle of the orre,
because of you I walk without copper,
without honor or dignity;
I'm a hose man and a cheeky one,
I'm always passing by
for your horse race.
I'm more dragged by the kennel,
a race pulls me more
than a beautiful woman.
Like a painted mouth
I'm greased by the colored one
as if I were her mishé.