Concha querida

Dear Shell, why are you so confused?
Soul shell, stop crying so much.
Next year, if God allows us,
Soul shell, we’re getting married.

The little birds are singing, the day is breaking,
the little birds are singing, the sun is shining.
And I tell you, get up, Concepción, make me some fat ones,
that’s your job.

Dear Shell, why are you so confused?
Soul shell, stop crying so much.
Next year, if God allows us,
Soul shell, we’re getting married.

The little birds are singing, the day is breaking,
the little birds are singing, the sun is shining.
And I tell you, get up, Concepción, make me some fat ones,
that’s your job.

That’s your job.