How much sand in your boots?
How much dry bread in teeths?
Everyday is longest day
or maybe the day you will never forget
God didn’t save you from the luck of a rich marriage
Nor your dictator saved you from the big glorious war
But maybe you were saved just
because you’ve never never believed
No saint has guided your wrinkle hand
But one hundred whores has driven your shining cars

I will sing my worst southamerican song at your funeral, my old man

Twenty years in the troubles
One hundred years of regrets
Life is to long to repent
and too short to deify the bitterness
Your ironed shirt, your [bad word] hair,
your perfect dye go beyond
Every political convinction and against every classfight
I loved your style and your hatred
for your hatred for mediocrity
God will not give you a honoured place
but he will envy your shined shoes

I will sing my worst southamerican song at your funeral, my old man