Si el norte fuera el sur

The North with its McDonald's, basketball, and rock 'n' roll,
its topless bars, its Madonnas, and Stallone's abs.
Bronzed intellectuals,
supermarket scholars have everything but haven’t paid a dime.
At eighteen, you’re a kid for a drink at some bar,
but you’re a full-grown man for war and to kill.
Long live Vietnam and long live Forrest Gump, long live Wall Street and long live Donald Trump.
Long live the Seven Eleven.
They’re snorting lines and carrying syringes in their pockets,
traveling with weed to understand the situation.
From this judge of the planet who throws out an invitation:
Cut it off your husband and you’ll gain some reputation.
The stars and stripes take over my flag
and our freedom is nothing but a whore.
And if foreign debt stole our spring,
To hell with geography, borders are gone.
If the North were the South, the Sioux would be the outcasts.
Being dark-skinned and short would be the hottest look.
Marcos would be the Mexican Rambo and Cindy Crawford the Menchú of my people.
Reagan would be Somoza,
Fidel would be an athlete running bags on Wall Street,
and Che would be flipping burgers double meat style.
The Yankees would be wetbacks in Tijuana and rafts from Miami to Havana,
if the North were the South.
We’d be the same or maybe a bit worse, with the Falklands in Greenland
and in Guatemala, a Disneyland.
And a Simón Bolívar breaking his secret, here’s 187,
Yankees out by decree.
The stars and stripes take over my flag
and our freedom is nothing but a whore.
And if foreign debt stole our spring,
To hell with geography, borders are gone.
If the North were the South, it’d be the same old crap.
I’d be rapping and this song wouldn’t even exist...