Pal Abrojal

Sunday arrived
Forgetting the Sun
And in the ranch Macario
Resounds and resounds
Guitar and singer
To a corner the bonfire
Where skinny Martín
Is browning the cakes
That to many pockets
Left bare

The jacket is people
People for real
Born in the wasteland
Under the abrojal
Trot that trots
And jumps from mouth to mouth
Many hands that already touch it
Becomes the language of friendship
Short and even trot
On the reins
It spreads to the four winds
But always returns to the abrojal

El Pollito gave
An insult to Finao
Because in the sweet mate
They're already ten rounds
He leaves him hanging
The Compadre kind of
Proposing peace
And now he's asking
If inside his ear
He has a Manganga'

The jacket is people
People for real
Born in the wasteland
Under the abrojal
Trot that trots
And jumps from mouth to mouth
Many hands that already touch it
Becomes the language of friendship
Short and even trot
On the reins
It spreads to the four winds
But always returns to the abrojal

Close to the lantern
Macario has taken over
And he plays some cuecas
That even the biggest liar
Leaves bent
Lucianito fell
Quite seasoned
Singing Tacuruses
And some of López
Have been mixed in

The jacket is people
People for real
Born in the wasteland
Under the abrojal
Trot that trots
And jumps from mouth to mouth
Many hands that already touch it
Becomes the language of friendship
Short and even trot
On the reins
It spreads to the four winds
But always returns to the abrojal

Sunday arrived
With God's water
Tortafrita with mate
And in any hole
The gentleman laughs
Sunday left
And the waiters too
Only the strings remain
Tuning this trot
Memories of yesterday

The jacket is people
People for real
Born in the wasteland
Under the abrojal
Trot that trots
And jumps from mouth to mouth
Many hands that already touch it
Becomes the language of friendship
Short and even trot
On the reins
It spreads to the four winds
But always returns to the abrojal