¡Al Ladrón, Al Ladrón!

It seems, from what they say
That you are still preparing for exams in Carabanchel
Yesterday, your fifteen-year-old granddaughter
Saw how they pushed you out of a cabaret
It seems you are no longer that pickpocket
With white gloves and an artist's soul
The good times will not return
I've been told that with arthritis in your knuckles
More than one pocket resists you
That you don't even fulfill your duties with your wife
I've been told that every purse is an odyssey
That a lady in a fight
Has given you a black eye

You who had the most exclusive clientele
And in every hit you left your signature mark
While you laughed safely and counted the money
Someone passed by shouting
To the thief, to the thief!

If it weren't for the few
Who, pretending not to notice, support your dignity
Pretending they don't know
Letting you steal their wallet
I've been told it's killing you
That the kids forget that good manners
Are essential for stealing
You know that to make a good hunt
You don't need to use a knife
A true professional
You always pampered the poor at the expense of the rich
What was an art, damn it
Is starting to degenerate