Massana

With a wool shirt, corduroy pants,
the freedom in his mind and a Mauser in his hand,
Marcel Massana - a rebel as God intended -
running through the Berguedà in the fifties.

Good morning, gentlemen, show us all the cash
that you made this month exploiting the workers,
and now in your underwear, in front of our machetes,
you'll stroll, ridiculous, among the looms.

The commander couldn’t shake off one thought:
lock him up and let him rot.
But every day, Massana slipped through his fingers,
leaving him bitter, poor unfortunate.

He didn’t give a damn if the green coats
saw him when he went down to Berga.
None of them knew the face he was hiding
and he could go there and ask them for a light.

They even say that one day when the commander was bored
sipping his coffee alone, sitting at a bar,
he found it paid for by the guy at the next table:
a certain Massana who had just left.

One day Radio Andorra broadcasted
a greeting to the commander of the Civil Guard
from Massana, a charming salute:
'Wait for me in Heaven' by Machín.

But this time he made a mistake
and that’s why he could never avenge this duel -
he forgot a detail, known even by kids,
and that is that Civil Guards don’t go to heaven.

No Civil Guard could ever take him to the gallows,
what goes around comes around, and here he grew old,
and exiled in Occitania, Marcel Massana died
laughing his ass off while remembering the commander.