The Limping Pirate Song, by J. Sabina

I'm not a man

who cries easily,

always complaining about everything.

If life allows it,

I paw her,

if not, still I love what I do for a living,

and, since dreaming is free,

and I do not believe in reincarnation,

with a little bit of imagination,

I will depart right now

and live other lives,

try other names,

the skin and clothes

of all the men I will never be:

Al Capone in Chicago

a soldier in Melilla

a painter in Montparnasse

a mercenary in Damascus,

a Virgin-bearer in Sevilla,

a black man in New Orleans.

A dirty old man in Sodom

a deportee in Siberia

a sultan in his harem.

A policeman? No way!

the best toreador in the Fair

a young gipsy in Jerez.

A gambler in Monte Carlo

the cigarette in your mouth,

a taxi driver in New York.

The coolest guy in the block,

I do what I want,

an F- in Religion class.

The Queen's confessor,

a banderillero in Cádiz

a tavern keeper in Dublin.

A three-cushion billiard player

a rebel in Heaven

a cabaret owner.

The scratch in your back

the tenor in Rigoletto

the piano player in a brothel.

A bongo singer in La Habana

Casanova in Venice

an old man in Shangri-La.

A stowaway in your bed,

the lead singer in a band,

the best-time driver in Le Mans.

A crime reporter

A private eye in a tight spot

Preserved in alcohol.

The rapist in your dreams

the suicide in a viaduct

the Prince Charming in a soap opera.

A morphine addict in China

a deserter in India,

a sailor in Marseille,

a PlayBoy photographer.

But, if you let me choose

just one of these lives, then I choose

the limping pirate,

with a wooden leg,

a patch over his eye,

and a wicked face,

the old rogue, the captain

of a ship with a flag

showing two shinbones

and a skull.




Porque sí, por Sabina, porque me apetecía escribir una entrada sin segundas partes.