La Canera

Malicious aguardiente
warm up my poverty,
the poor man sucks with bitterness
and the rich man with ease.

Put in Mr. Pancho Sosa,
poke the storm
whistle with good aguardiente
from afar bring the mints.

Brazilian aguardiente
I know you by the aroma,
weighing down the throat
when you climb the hill.

Bay aguardiente
sharp as chili,
because of you the rigging
was cut by a buzzard.

And in the jacket,
the eight fingers of that dark-skinned man
who was monthly,
for each key his soul cried,
because it was the traditional soul.

He stayed in the canteen,
turning my soul around,
just like a rustler,
running into the police.

Returning aguardiente,
I know you in the little bottle,
you leave me because of malice,
you make me come back because of the knife.

And in the jacket,
the eight fingers of that dark-skinned man
who was monthly,
for each key his soul cried,
because it was the traditional soul.

Wake-up aguardiente,
fast as lightning,
and the deceased would rise
to make the bottle clink.

Baptism aguardiente,
blessed and uplifting,
only the buddies remain
with the priest and the singer.

And in the jacket,
the eight fingers of that dark-skinned man
who was monthly,
for each key his soul cried,
because it was the traditional soul.
for each key his soul cried
because it was the traditional soul...