Couro Cru

Raw leather, flesh on display
I'm not made for those who like it
From floodplains without tacurus
I didn't get another like
May the rain fall freely
In the rawhide carnal

Sun-kissed and serene
I am small among the small
Equal among my equals
A tough guy among the strong
And though I bend or twist
Nobody puts me on the clotheslines

They point the finger at me
They call me bagual
Matambre of the hard ones
Without ash and without salt
No hole in the guampa
No mark or sign
The finger is pointing at me
They call me bagual!

Raw leather, flesh on display
I'm not made for those who like it
From a floodplain without tacurus
To those who point the finger at me
Lack of core or excess of fear
To knead a rawhide
To knead
A rawhide!

They point the finger at me
They call me bagual
Matambre of the hard ones
Without ash and without salt
No hole in the guampa
No mark or sign
The finger is pointing at me
They call me bagual!

They point the finger at me
They call me bagual
Matambre of the hard ones
Without ash and without salt
No hole in the guampa
No mark or sign
The finger is pointing at me
They call me bagual!