El Tartamudo

Tiruriruri, tiruriruri, tiririririri ri, tiruriri
Down a street named after a historical leader
That at night fills with hysterical hookers with biblical names
Appeared an unemployed stutterer, optimistic and Olympic
With not a penny in his pocket but with a magnificent erection.

Into the market of sin he ventured to offer his desire
With the innocence of a sheep trotting into the slaughterhouse
He approached a proletarian pimp fervently
Point by point, he explained his desperate situation.

The prostitute looked at him, enchanted but not understanding
Until finally she grasped what the guy had in mind
She leaned in as if to give him a kiss soaked in liquor
But instead she shouted without mercy:
'Get lost, get lost, get lost!'

Splattered with the spit of the whore from her outburst
The guy saw that the bulge in his pants had disappeared
And with the strength that his wounded pride gave his broken voice
He gave the response that has become a legend in the neighborhood:
'You screw yourself over
for being such a son of a b*tch!
Hey, you're crazy, this is unheard of,
getting laid on credit, you won't even find that at the Chinese store!

Oh! Find that woman,
day and night,
and give her a position on the Economic Council!

Oh! said a drunkard,
don't take it so hard,
I think you have a calling,
go and enroll to study law!
(Lawyer? Another one! What this country needs are more taxi drivers!)
'You screw yourself over
for being such a son of a b*tch!
Such a son of a b*tch, such a son of a b*tch, such a son of a b*tch!
You screw yourself over, you screw yourself over, you screw yourself over, you screw yourself over!