A Mis Cuarenta y Diez

At my forty and ten,
forty-nine they say I look,
more sooner than later,
I must face the delicate moment
of starting to think
about settling down, about getting serious,
about resigning myself to write a will
(sorry for the sadness).
So that my loved ones, condemned
to an ungrateful future,
do not suffer what I have suffered, I have decided
to not leave them a penny,
only rights of love,
a seven in the heart and a sea of doubts,
under the condition that they do not
sell them off cheap, my widows at the flea market.

And, when, to my Rocio,
her soul stings and she gets chickenpox,
and, a red shiver,
marks the awkward age of my Carmela,
they will have a bad example, a hulla hop
and a D'Artacán that barks at them,
for every kiss that the braggart of their father
withheld from them.

But without haste, to the requiem
masses, I was never a fan,
because the wooden suit, that I will wear,
is not even planted yet,
because the priest, who will give me the last rites,
is not even an altar boy yet,
because, to be commercial, this song
lacks a good chorus.

Since I go out with the pale lady,
I am more dead than alive,
but to sleep the eternal sleep in her bed
seems excessive to me,
and, even though I have never given up on seeking,
in some open lips, they say there are kisses
that, when given, revive a dead man.

And, if you visit my grave,
on my birthday,
and I don't respond, wait for me in the living room,
until I come back from the bathroom.
Who cares,
after death, if one has their vices...?
on the day of judgment,
God may be my court-appointed lawyer.

But without haste, to the requiem
masses, I was never a fan,
because the wooden suit, that I will wear,
is not even planted yet,
because the priest, who will give me the last rites,
is not even an altar boy yet,
because, to be commercial, this song
lacks a good chorus.