Sos de Chiclana

You're from Chiclana, there's nothing to be done,
your pedigree is from the purest slum;
whole sister you are from that Ester
who men treated so badly.

But if the other fell
her soul remained
attached to the fabric;
you, on the other hand, are happy,
you spend extravagantly
and go to the club.

But there's something in you, under your grand attire,
that screams 'Chiclana!' to all who see you.

Today I found out that to Paris
you're going with a rich guy
and, with your gigolo,
how happy we are...

You're doing very well:
here, everything ended;
today your door tells you
'you'll only enter dead'.

Today the sun came out
for that poor home
that you dared to mourn,
today your family doesn't cry.

From Paris,
you'll hear this prayer:
'Lord, may she be happy
and never love again'.

When you parade there, at Longchamp,
the folks from here will say when they see
your lovely figure: 'Purebred tango!'
It's your Chiclana, there's nothing to be done...

And your triumphant gallop
will leave a trail,
there as here;
and your old lady, in a corner,
will say a prayer
for you.

But there's something in you, under your grand attire,
that screams 'Chiclana!' to all who see you.