Let's serve another round, pulpero.
I'm not a pig.
I'm a bug that doesn't have a ranch.
That's dragging around
sorrows and joys.
And about the distributed
the bad ones are winning.
Serve another round, grocer, let's see.
For my peers in the settlement.
Who are carrying the weight today,
before the law for undocumented immigrants.
In lands won from the State,
where the militia always
come to beat us.
Then it is the creatures who pay.
Instead of a glass of milk,
a glass of water.
That's sad.
Pour another round, grocer, let's see.
That the terrain I I have marked it.
And I will continue doing odd jobs,
to be able to build it.
There will never be more turnstile
than to live with dignity in poverty.
Later with the neighbors,
we will make a picnic school.
There will no longer be street children,
who will suffer the fate of their parents and grandparents.
That's sad.
Then it's the creatures who pay.
Instead of a glass of milk,
a glass of water.
That's true. It's sad.
Serve another round, grocer, let's see.
This is the one with the stirrup.
I am a convinced man.
That what one has, one has to earn .
That is why, with eleven families,
we have beaten, once, the State.
That is sad.
For him who does not have a ranch.
That's sad.
Nowhere to drop dead.

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