Yendo a la casa de Damián [English translation]

Going a weekend to Damian's place

I had urgency to talk to him;

I walked beacuse my van tire got flat.

I saw a girl whom I'm a fan,

one who appears in Sony channel,

in a TV series with a pony,

and, at my house in the Marconi's neighbourhood,

I always watch her drinking a Johnny.

I said hello but she ignored me,

because the show was in MTV.

She was doing a spot to Carefree

and a jingle to Jeans Lee,

I said "I like rock",

but she stood in shock

when I put down on paper

that she was uglier than Mr. Spock...

And that she fills her bra

with corned beef and chow mein,

and though she uses Chanel,

she drinks a cocktail with Shell's gas.

The bodyguard got hard,

he was tough but was using Levy's,

and threw from the limo

to my eye, a glass of gin.

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

Ahh, ahh, walking through the boulevard.

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

I don't know if it's that I don't see, or don't understand,

why it's hard for me to get there.

Crossing the street I got shocked

when I saw two girls smoiking hashish,

they were listening to trash and The Clash,

playing drink games with splash,

and, like once at a vernissage,

I had an attack of CFS

when they told me "For 10 pesos in cash

we'd have a threesome".

I got a tic due my nerves,

I always was a freak deep down.

I gave them a light with my Bic lighter.

Though it seems no chic for me

that they fucked for a soda,

with a nerd in plush socks

who painted them their lips carmine.

I spat his Bush t-shirt.

With my spit in George's face,

he jumped with the girls on a Porsche

It was believed that he was a VIP dude

chewing a potato chip.

As he started to strip

and was only in his underwear,

he stuck a clip in my eye

and said: "your grave gonna say RIP"

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

Ahh, ahh, walking through the boulevard.

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

I don't know if it's that I don't see, or don't understand,

why it's hard for me to get there.

It was the cabaret's happy hour,

it was in fashion and had a rug,

lika a pub, cool and with pool table,

the owner is from Liverpool.

And after a brief impasse,

I entered with free-pass to see a show

of a master who played jazz

eventhough he had a bypass.

A dude with the look of a gay came to talk to me,

I was putting stop and he was putting play.

He liked Big Mac and Tupac,

he sold crack and took Prozac,

and screamed spitting out his snack

"the master does playback".

Everyone ripped him like Jack used to,

and he couldn't finish his cognac.

But fell from his penthouse

to my eye a keyboard and a mouse.

Blinded and mad because of the stress,

worst than in a express kidnapping,

I, who only know how to say in english "yes",

thought in a Herman Hess's book.

I'm a loser like a boyscout,

and I declared myself out from life.

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

Ahh, ahh, walking through the boulevard.

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

I don't know if it's that I don't see...

Ahh, ahh

Ahh, ahh

Ahh, ahh, going to Damian's house.

I don't know if it's that I don't see, or don't understand,

why it's hard for me to get there.

• Artist:El Cuarteto de Nos
• Album:Raro (2006)