La Morralla
Carlos Cano
The Junk
Who has not seen a dry tree
He doesn't know that a lark sings more the hotter it is
The more the Sun sings, the more
The more sun, the more noise
The M copy shooting
Let the manipulation end so the show can begin
Who lives in low, closed houses?
As boxes the same as a shroud
And squeeze harder than a lemon?
The first were the workers, the beautiful olive growers
The pretty day laborers, the little backpack, sir
Well, the same trash that
That never even for God is silent
The point and the line that up to the hair
It is when it explodes
The one who fights and does not receive a single medal
Until the poor man steps on the scorpion and jumps over the fence
The one that makes bread takes out the oil and it never fails me
I am from that same little rabble
Tell me wood pigeon, who planted the pumpkin?
Who gets up early in the morning?
Who do flies eat, typhus and pneumonia?
Come on, let's slice the watermelon to beat the heat?
Who carries four pesetas and a chorizo in the suitcase?
And he writes down the Duserdó station in a notebook?
The first were the workers, the beautiful olive growers
The pretty day laborers, the little teacher
