Farabute

Scoundrel, deluded by the nonsense of magnates
Who wrap their presence in sumptuous position
Don't think, poor rag, that one born in a cot
Is condemned to live modestly by fate

You are the rehashed scum that you flaunt with your presence
A cheap thug, residue of the slum
Your thug deeds in the notebook of absence
With the pencil of memory, I will enumerate them

Clandestine of races
Sometimes a gambler
That's how you make the coins
With which you sometimes dress up
At home all year
At mealtime
You swell with arrogance
What you never earn

Reveal yourself, scoundrel, you weren't born to be a pimp
Dedicate yourself to work, that's where your salvation lies
Remember your dear mother, a month ago in the hospice
Dying with your siblings, begging for help

I, who in her sad existence you've treated like a rag
Not even a compliment did you know how to show her
Today you have the mission that has been entrusted to you by life
The saint from heaven will know how to reward you