Historia De Un Perdedor

One fine day I decided to leave.
I said: -Dad, I’m not coming back.-
He buttoned up his shirt and gave me a cross and a piece of paper.
I walked out, with his laughter behind me, and it started to rain.
And I ran, and I made it to the city, and I walked into the first brothel.
There I met a bad woman with a wig and a glass eye.
-If you want me, you’ll have to pay,- she shot back while chewing.
I hesitated: -I only have this cross.-
She said: -That’ll do.-
And I don’t know if I dreamed it or if she winked with her glass eye.

This is my story, sir.
I know you don’t care.
But this is my story, sir.
They left me stranded on the sidewalk
and people called me a loser.

I shook off my pants. I wanted to get drunk, so I walked into a dark bar.
I struck up a brief friendship with the bartender.
They called him Crazy Tom.
And I drank, drank Irish whiskey until I almost passed out.
And I, who thought I knew a bit more, paid with the piece of paper.
And when Crazy Tom read it, he turned pale.
He yelled: -Nobody makes a fool of me. Not a loser like you, not in my own home. We don’t like fags here.-
There were three of them, Crazy and two others; I came out worse for wear.
They ripped my pants off and then they impaled me.

This is my story, sir.
I know you don’t care.
But this is my story, sir.
They left me naked in the gutter
and tattooed -LOSER- on my chest.

Don’t rush, sir; I’ve reached the end.
Whatever you want to do, I’ll do it.
But know that I’m not that miserable guy from the story you just heard.
Look at me, if you want me, you’ll have to pay.
But no, not a cross or a piece of paper, but something real.

Because this is my story, sir.
I know you don’t care.
But this is my story, sir.
Those people despise me out there,
and they whisper: _There goes the loser._

La, la, la, la...
Don’t spit in my face, sir.