Cornetín

Toot, toot.
They call him Roque Barullo,
conductor of the National line.

With his streetcar, no fourth gear or hitch,
he knows how to cross the big ditch in Cuyo.
The horn, hanging from a string,
and in the buttonhole, a little charm of weeds.

Toot, toot.
And the horn's ready to play
if there's a scene in a hallway.

Look, that girl looks so fine,
look, sweeping the sidewalk,
check out how good it looks on her,
look, that pink skirt.
Stop, the old lady's getting on,
stop because she's complaining,
if it's in motion.
Look, look, the wind is blowing,
look, look, what a disaster.

Toot, toot,
the team trots,
doves splashing in the mud.

Ding, ding,
the little bell rings
of the foreman,
playing a joke
and the conductor
keeps hitting hard
to get through
without a mess up the hill.
Toot, toot,
that maybe a girl will show up
from any doorway.

What a pretty girl,
sweeping the sidewalk,
look how good it looks on her,
the pink skirt.
Stop, the old lady's getting on,
stop because she's complaining
if it's in motion,
look, look, the wind is blowing,
look, look, what a disaster.

Toot, toot.
Roque Barullo drives
for the National line.