La Tienda de Mi Pueblo

I had a store in my town, a beautiful place,
I sold you from a sweet potato from Puebla to a miracle to Saint Buto,
whistles, toy guns for kids I made you buy,
for your hangover a belly, I inflated a tire in a minute.

Rings, hoops, medals you could acquire;
a ring, a drill, flasks, your leather belt;
I buried you in the cemetery, I put you in the coffin,
before with a pickaxe I opened your hole;
you gave me to rent someone to cry,
while crying I lit candles for your burial.

Milk, your tea, chocolate, your oatmeal or coffee;
I pulled out the rotten teeth, left the good ones;
raisins, sapodilla, beans with honey;
there were methods, pipes or eggs or plates or firewood.

From Apizaco I had ayocotes brought;
I exported chipotle in crates, also the memela;
pacifiers for the baby, from a fortune teller to an ox,
peanuts and wicks, biscuits, played hopscotch;
on Mother's Day I sold what I put in on the twentieth:
turnips, carrots, green beans and chili in a pot.

Feathers in sacks of canvas or Juir fabric,
there were rose loins and stems, hoses and files,
mangoes, mameys, cushions, chests from here,
there was sugar cane juice, metates, tompiates, pallets.
You could take a chorizo sausage from a sausage,
longaniza from that brought by the little Indians from outside;
I accommodated you upon arrival in my private hotel,
three more pesos I charged you for the shower;
but one day I got lost, and even sold my store,
only saved from the transfer the back part.
I had a store in my town, a beautiful place.