La Comadreja
Once Tiros
The Weasel
I already made tomorrow's pasta today, brother
And now scram because they keep spinning their web
And like flies we fell prisoners
Going round and round some trash
There's nothing to eat, nothing to drink
From the crumbs left by those who fly above
The social status puts us
In doubt of the right to equality
But I'll still move my feet
Even if just for tonight
But I'll still yell at you again
To see if you finally face it.
