‘Neath the street-lights at mid-night we’re there,
Our spirits like smoke that blows through the night,
rest-less but going no-where.
Trouble is all we can give you,
Trouble is all we have known,
Our lives like water that runs through our hands,
Leaving us unloved & a-lone.
Our fathers, they say, were just like us;
Our children will all be the same –
Hair like black leather and skin brown as wood,
Speaking a low Spanish name.
Remember our mothers who gave us our lives,
Like grass in the spring of their year?
They left us behind with hearts light as wine,
Their breasts undissolved in our tears.
The things that I do are all very bad things;
I do them and then don’t know why.
You hold up your sons with their blue or brown eyes
And tell me they’re better than I.
My friends, they too all despise me;
I do all the wrong they had planned;
And all that I have for the years of my life
Is a cross that I’ve carved on my hand.
They put me in jail behind iron bars,
You’ll find me with blood on my hands;
And tomorrow I’ll stand up in front of the guns
And I’ll give you the life you demand.
But tonight, as you sit at your table,
With your wife and your child close by,
Remember this corrido my young blood has made,
And now, mi amigos, goodbye.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2014/5/27 - 11:31
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