Una Historia de Alvite - Ismael Serrano translation in English

Una Historia de Alvite

Cuando su padre acuchilló a su madre,
Estaba tan perdido y tan borracho,
Que intentó enterrarla en la cocina
Y, muchacho, vivían en un cuarto.

En el Savoy me lo contó el Alvite.
Eran tiempos en los que Ernie Loquasto
Reinaba como un dandy analfabeto
Sobre las putas, el juego y el caballo.

Ella tenía, ya sabes, lo que tienen
Esas mujeres que en lugar de labios
Te ofrecen la succión de una bañera
Y convierten las camas en un charco.

Hay gente que nace en sábanas de seda
Y otros, qué quieres, nacen para ser trapos.

Andaba diferente a todas ellas
Y nunca se sabía si sus pasos
Eran recuerdos de antiguas palizas
O el culo se lo movía el diablo.

Ella, muchacho, me confesó una noche
Que su única ambición, a que negarlo,
Era que cuando le llegara ese momento
El ataúd, joder, fuera forrado.

De los hombres nunca decía nada.
Los hombres nunca nada le habían dado,
Si quitas mil palizas y algun beso
Con sabor a empastes y a tabaco.

Hay gente que nace en sábanas de seda
Y otros, qué quieres, nacen para ser trapos.

Yo ya la conocí cuando no era
Ni sombra de ella misma, y sus abrazos
Olían a cuartucho de pensiones,
Y la muerte le buscaba los atajos.

El Alvite me dijo que una noche,
En un callejon tan solitario
Que ni ratas había, te lo juro,
Encontraron su cuerpo destrozado.

Tenía, dicen, las mismas cuchilladas
Que su padre a su madre le había dado.
Hay gente que nace en sábanas de seda
Y otros, qué quieres, nacen para ser trapos.

Ni siquiera logró, maldita sea,
Ese ataúd forradito de raso.
Su cuerpo se quedó en el Anatómico
Para estudio de la ciencia, muchacho.

Hay gente que nace en sábanas de seda
Y otros, qué quieres, nacen para ser trapos.

A Tale of Alvite

When his father stabbed his mother,
He was so lost and so drunk,
That he tried to bury her in the kitchen
And, boy, they lived in a room.

Alvite told me this at the Savoy.
Those were the days when Ernie Loquasto
Reigned like an illiterate dandy
Over the whores, gambling, and the horse.

She had, you know, what those women have
Those women who instead of lips, my dear,
Offer you the suction of a bathtub
And turn beds into a puddle.

There are people who are born in silken sheets
And others, what do you want, are born to be rags.

She walked differently than all of them
And you never knew if her steps
Were memories of old beatings
Or if her ass was being jiggled by the devil.

She, my dear, confessed to me one night
That her only ambition, no denying it,
Was that when that moment came for her
The casket, damn it, would be lined.

She never said anything about men.
Men had never given her anything,
If you don't count a thousand beatings and a few kisses
Tasting of fillings and tobacco.

There are people who are born in silken sheets
And others, what do you want, are born to be rags.

I already knew her when she was not
Even a shadow of herself, and her hugs
Smelled like a boarding house room,
And death was looking for shortcuts to her.

Alvite told me that one night,
In an alley so lonely
That there weren't even any rats, I swear,
They found her body destroyed.

They say she had the same stab wounds
That her father had given her mother.
There are people who are born in silken sheets
And others, what do you want, are born to be rags.

She didn't even get, damn it,
That coffin lined with satin.
Her body ended up in the Anatomy Lab
For the study of science, my dear.

There are people who are born in silken sheets
And others, what do you want, are born to be rags.