No me pregunten como es mi muchacha

Don't ask me, no no, don't ask me, don't ask me, no no, don't ask me, don't ask me.
Don't ask me how my girl is, if she's tall or short, if she's fat or if she's skinny, don't ask me the color of her hair, if it's jet black or caramel.
I just tell you that every afternoon, she leaves her house when the sun burns, she carries a thousand jars of creams in her purse and she walks through the squares with that attitude.
You'll see her. Wow! How good she looks in jeans, sunbathing in Plaza San Martin. You'll see her, with rhythm and elegance, when she walks with swagger in Plaza Francia.
Move it move it move it!
Don't ask me, the color of her eyes, nor the taste of her red lips.
Don't ask me how my girl is, if she's sad or happy, silly or lively.