Que La Tortilla Se Vuelva

The grass of the roads
Is stepped on by the walkers
And the worker's wife
Is stepped on by four scoundrels
Those who have money.

What fault does the tomato have
That is peaceful on the plant
And comes a son of a bitch
And puts it in a can
And sends it to Caracas.

The mine owners
Have bought a scale
To weigh the money
That every week
They steal from the poor worker.

When will the God of heaven
Want the tortilla to turn over
So the poor eat bread
And the rich shit, shit.