Flores En La Tumba de Un Vasquito

Except for those of the imagination
He had lost all the battles
A Sunday without soccer he told us
Defeated, that he was throwing in the towel
And no one believed him

But, this time, he wasn't bluffing
The next day he stole a rope
And instead of saying a prayer
He told the world to go to hell
And from a drunk stick, he hung himself

He owed a rent and a half
He left as an inheritance a verse by Neruda
A bowl with paper eyelashes
Floating in the coffee
And a sickly and widowed guitar

He invested what little he had
In a luxury bone for the dog
And paid cash for the best
Crown he found
So there would be flowers at his funeral

Twenty years ago I met him
In London, conspiring against Franco
He was the king of hashish oil
And he was more excited to rob a bank
Than the May of Paris

I saw him for the last time on Florida
With his anachronistic and withered suit
Studying the menu of a cabaret
'There's food, my favorite dish!'
He shouted to mess around

He owed a rent and a half
He left as an inheritance a verse by Neruda
A tear of Lilí Marlen
Floating in the coffee
And a sickly and widowed guitar

He invested what little he had
In a luxury bone for the dog
And paid cash for the best
Crown he found
So there would be flowers at his funeral

It seems like yesterday when he left
To the neighborhood behind the stars
Death, who is jealous and a woman
Took a fancy to him
And took him to sleep with her forever