Bolicho

At the counter smell of laughter from old scratched wood
Bundle of straw and tobacco in a rag
Dust, lots of cachaça and some hidden quarrel

The radio falling apart in a Gardel tango
Flowered chita piece, lace, espadrille, and pastel
And an old tabby cat that rules the gossip

Roadside tavern, in the loneliness of the countryside
Where the lonely Indian drowns his sorrows in sugarcane liquor
Home of wanderers, where the aimless
Seeks in liquor and smoke to ease the longing for loves

Outside the rising dawn, inside the descending drink
The eight-bass throat sings even what it doesn't know
A well-played card game since Monday morning

No one passes without reaching the roadside tavern
And the tricky tavern keeper has a prepared face
Sometimes his notebook charges those who bought nothing