Los Críticos
GP
The Critics
(Society is a big shadow
Projected on the wall
To the horror of children and fools
The same definition remains for the critics)
Strange creatures that walk the streets
Turned into true clowns
Disguised as perverted rebels
Spitting phlegm from their corrupted mouths
That's what the foolish guerrillas say
They understand nothing, their brains on loan
They are absurd people and stupid conformists
Who repress their own freedom
The people's eyes bulging
They walk at the same pace as the oppressed
And the so-called critics of the moment
Cower in their cowardice
Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing escapes you
Everything, everything, everything. You criticize everything
I still don't know why you called me a hermit
And why you shout at me, maladjusted
Maladjusted, maladjusted
