¡Al Ladrón, Al Ladrón!

It seems, from what they say
That you’re still trying to get into Caravanchel
Yesterday, your fifteen-year-old granddaughter
Saw you getting shoved out of a cabaret
It looks like you’re not that pickpocket anymore
With white gloves and an artist's soul
The good times aren’t coming back
I’ve heard that with the arthritis in your knuckles
You’re struggling to lift more than one wallet
And you’re not even keeping up with your woman
I’ve heard that every purse is an odyssey
That a lady in a fight
Gave you a black eye

You, who had the most exclusive clientele
And with every hit, you left your signature
While you laughed and counted the cash safely
Someone passed by shouting
To the thief, to the thief!

If it weren’t for the few
Who pretend to be clueless to uphold your dignity
Acting like they don’t notice
They let you lift their wallets
I’ve heard it drives you crazy
That the kids forget that good manners
Are essential for stealing
You know that to make a good catch
You don’t need to use a knife
A true professional
You always pampered the poor at the expense of the rich
What was once an art, a damn joke
Is starting to degenerate