Callejera

When you rush on by
heading who knows where,
your silhouette shines
as you walk with flair,
you're saying with that strut
that you’ve got the moves:
"Streetwalker... Streetwalker...
where are you gonna end up?"

Those outfits that you wear
just don’t match your roots,
you poor little hustler
made of silk and cotton.
In a fine crystal glass
you sip on fancy drinks,
and among all the glitz
your neighborhood's lost its shine.

Streetwalker,
you strut from South to North,
showing off with that style
of the outfit that you flaunt.
Streetwalker,
you’re also a little dancer
and deep down in your soul
you bury a heartache.

Your charm is a triumph, I know,
and in the late-night dives
you’re the one who shines
the brightest of them all.
You’ll waste temptation,
but also, streetwalker,
when you’re old and worn out
your heart will be dead.

Just keep on going, glide
through your springtime of life,
fascinated and fooled
by the lights of Pigalle,
but when winter starts to carve
into your life’s timeline
you’ll realize with regret
that you’ve lived a carnival.