High boots, leather jackets,
with Sex Pistols badges and the Who,
Whistling come out of their holes
the turkeys of the Kung Fu band.
From the suburb when the sun goes down,
on the back of boredom and anxiety,
They come looking for anger in the city.
Tell your daughters, man of the street,
that hide their virtue and their clock,
close your Sima-Mil with seven keys,
It gives the alarm if it takes the elevator.
Sleep dressed, do not turn off the light,
keep the radio cassette in a trunk,
that the Kung Fu band is loose.
Motorcycles
who managed the day before yesterday
they lead them to Lavapiés.
Six amphotic tubes,
two pharmacies, a pull,
if it is threatened, some violation.
To the rhythm of killer guitars
the fate is played in the face or in the cross.
In El Caso you have read a neighbor
that the Kung Fu gang has fallen.
They can sleep in peace again,
save a few pesetas each month,
routine work for the judge.
From the pub to the train,
they do not know another hotel
than the fifth of Carabanchel.
The veins are cut,
glasses are swallowed with such
to be taken to the hospital.
What does it matter if they burst someday?
While things are as they are
his colleagues from Aluche or Entrevías
the law of the knife will inherit.
From the suburb, when the sun goes down,
on the back of boredom and anxiety
they will come looking for anger in the city.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)