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Who has not seen a dry tree?
He doesn't know that a calandria
The more heat, the more it sings
The more you sing, the more sun
The more sun, the more hustle and bustle
The couplet of the shooting
Let the bullying stop
For the show to begin
Who lives in low houses?
Closed like boxes
The same as a shroud
And tighter than a lemon?
The first, the workers
The beautiful olive growers
The pretty day laborers
The little backpack, sir
Well, the same rabble that never shuts up, not even for God.
The one with the dot and the line that is up to the hair when it explodes
The one who fights and doesn't receive a medal
The one that makes the poor man step on a scorpion and jump over the fence
The one that bread makes
It takes out the oil and never fails me.
From that same trash
It's me, little backpack.
Tell me, wood pigeon
Who plants the pumpkin?
Who lifts his house
Dawn after dawn?
Who do flies eat?
Typhus, pneumonia
Come on, slices of watermelon!
To beat the heat?
Who has four pesetas
And a chorizo in the suitcase
And written down in a notebook
Düsseldorf station?
The first, the workers
The beautiful olive growers
The pretty day laborers
The little backpack, sir
Well, the same rabble that never shuts up, not even for God.
The one with the dot and the line that is up to the hair when it explodes
The one who fights and doesn't receive a medal
From that same trash
It's me, little backpack.
From that same trash
It's me, little backpack.
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