Pa'l Abrojal

Sunday arrived
forgetting the sun
and in the ranch Macario
resounds and resounds
guitar and singer
In a corner the bonfire
where skinny Martín
is browning the cakes
that to many pockets
he left tapping
The jacket is folk
true folk
born in the wasteland
under the thicket
Trot that trots
and jumps from mouth to mouth
many hands that already touch it
turns into the language of friendship
Short and even trot
on the reins
it spreads to the four winds
but always returns to the thicket
Close to the lantern
Macario has taken over
and he plays some cuecas
that even the biggest liar
leaves bent
Little Luciano fell
quite seasoned
singing tacuruses
and some from López
have mingled
The jacket is folk
true folk
born in the wasteland
under the thicket
Trot that trots
and jumps from mouth to mouth
many hands that already touch it
turns into the language of friendship
Short and even trot
on the reins
it spreads to the four winds
but always returns to the thicket
Sunday arrived
with God's water
tortafrita with mate
and in any hole
the gentleman laughs
Sunday left
and the young men too
only the strings remain
tuning this trot
memories of yesterday
The jacket is folk
true folk
born in the wasteland
under the thicket
Trot that trots
and jumps from mouth to mouth
many hands that already touch it
turns into the language of friendship
Short and even trot
on the reins
it spreads to the four winds
but always returns to the thicket