Que La Tortilla Se Vuelva
Quilapayún
May the Tortilla Turn Over
The grass of the roads
Is stepped on by the walkers
And the worker's wife
Is stepped on by four scoundrels
Those who have money
What fault does the tomato have
That is calm on the plant
And comes a son of a bitch
And puts it in a can
And sends it to Caracas
The mine owners
Have bought a scale
To weigh the money
That every week
They steal from the poor worker
When will the God of heaven
Want the tortilla to turn over
So the poor eat bread
And the rich shit, shit
