Navajazos Por Un Chandal

The workers no longer think
as their grandparents did,
and they tip their hats
when the usurer passes by.
Then they say it's a lie,
then they say they don't forget,
but there's never a disobedience
that the union doesn't command.
And it's very hard to be a worker
and feel like a dog,
always forgiving the master:
bad treatment, bad food.
And it's well known by all
that there was spilled blood,
but everything has been lost,
there was blood for nothing.
Now they fight among themselves,
when the sales arrive
they fight over the crumbs.
Stabs for a tracksuit.
I don't want to be a worker anymore,
nor work for the usurer,
nor feel like a dog,
when I tip my hat.