Una Historia de Alvite

When his father stabbed his mother,
he was so lost and so drunk,
that he tried to bury her in the kitchen
and, boy, they lived in one room.

At the Savoy Alvite told me.
They were times when Ernie Loquasto
reigned like an illiterate dandy
among the whores, the gambling, and the horses.

She had, you know, what those women have
who instead of lips
offer you the suction of a bathtub
and turn beds into a puddle.

There are people born in silk sheets
and others, what do you want, born to be rags.

She walked different from all of them
and you never knew if her steps
were memories of old beatings
or if the devil moved her ass.

She, boy, confessed to me one night
that her only ambition, let's not deny it,
was that when that moment came
the coffin, damn it, would be lined.

She never said anything about men.
Men had never given her anything,
except a thousand beatings and a kiss
with the taste of fillings and tobacco.

There are people born in silk sheets
and others, what do you want, born to be rags.

I met her when she was
not even a shadow of herself, and her hugs
smelled like a cheap room in boarding houses,
and death looked for shortcuts for her.

Alvite told me that one night,
in an alley so lonely
that there weren't even rats, I swear,
they found her body destroyed.

They say she had the same stab wounds
that her father had given her mother.
There are people born in silk sheets
and others, what do you want, born to be rags.

She didn't even manage, damn it,
to have that coffin lined with satin.
Her body stayed at the morgue
for science study, boy.

There are people born in silk sheets
and others, what do you want, born to be rags.