Domingo Muerto
Los Caballeros de la Quema
Dead Sunday
You went to bed alone
as always, alone
nothing to caress
and you drank it all
as always, all
hangover and cross of termidor
the sun bullies you through the blinds and you want to die
with that taste of lime in your mouth
and you can't fall asleep...
your relatives with dead drool hanging
stuck to the TV
the old lady calls to eat the noodles and you,
and you vomiting in the bidet...
another dead Sunday in the city
boredom to share
you go back to your room and call your girlfriend
the answering machine picks up
you turn on the radio and Boca is a disaster,
2 to 2 with Mandiyú...
you go out on the street to find a friend
everyone has another plan
and you end up hugging a Quilmes,
Monday starts to harpoon you
another dead Sunday in the city
boredom to share.
