La Morralla

Who has not seen a dry tree
does not know that a lark sings more against more heat
the more it sings, the more sun.
Against more sun, more fuss
the copy M shootout:
let the bossing end so the show can begin.
Who lives in low closed houses
like boxes, just like a shroud
and tighter than a lemon?
The first ones, the workers, the lovely olive pickers
the pretty day laborers, the little junk, sir.
Chorus
Well, that same junk
that never shuts up, not even for God
the one of the dot and the line that even the hairs
are when it explodes
the one that fights and doesn't receive a medal
the one that even when the poor step on a scorpion and jump the fence
the one that makes bread, extracts the oil and never fails me
from that same junk, I am a little junk.
Tell me, turtledove, who plants the pumpkin
who builds his house early morning after early morning?
Who do the flies eat, the flu, the pneumonia
come on, slice the watermelon to fight the heat?
Who carries four pesetas and a chorizo in the suitcase
and writes down in a notebook the Duserdó station?
The first ones, the workers, the lovely olive pickers
the bon