Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Pompas De Jabon, artist - Carlos Gardel. Album song Pobres Chicas - Su Obra Integral: Vol. 11, in the genre Латиноамериканская музыка
Date of issue: 12.04.2017
Record label: Fresh Sound
Song language: Spanish
Pompas De Jabon(original) |
Pebeta de mi barrio, papa, papusa |
Que andas paseando en auto con un bacán |
Que te has cortado el pelo como se usa |
Y que te lo has teñido color champán |
Que en lo peringundines de frac y fuelle |
Bailas luciendo cortes de cotillón |
Y que a las milongueras, por darles dique |
Al irte con tu «camba», batís «allón» |
Hoy tus pocas primaveras |
Te hacen soñar en la vida |
Y en la ronda pervertida |
Del nocturno jarandón |
Pensá en aristocracias |
Y derrochás tus abriles… |
¡Pobre mina, que entre giles |
Te sentís Mimí Pinsón!!! |
Pensá, pobre pebeta, papa, papusa |
Que tu belleza un día se esfumará |
Y que como todas las flores que se marchitan |
Tus locas ilusiones se morirán |
El «mishé» que te mima con sus morlacos |
El día menos pensado se aburrirá |
Y entonces como tantas flores de fango |
Irás por esas calles a mendigar… |
Triunfas porque sos apenas |
Embrión de carne cansada |
Y porque tu carcajada |
Es dulce modulación |
Cuando implacables, los años |
Te inyecten sus amarguras… |
Ya verás que tus locuras |
Fueron pompas de jabón |
(translation) |
Pebeta from my neighborhood, dad, papusa |
That you are riding in a car with a bacán |
That you have cut your hair as it is used |
And that you have dyed it champagne color |
That in the peringundines of tails and bellows |
You dance wearing cotillion cuts |
And that to the milongueras, for giving them a dam |
When you leave with your «camba», you beat «allón» |
Today your few springs |
They make you dream in life |
And in the perverted round |
of the jarandon night |
Think of aristocracies |
And you waste your years... |
Poor mine, that between giles |
Do you feel Mimí Pinsón!!! |
Think, poor pebeta, papa, papusa |
That your beauty will one day vanish |
And that like all the flowers that wither |
Your crazy illusions will die |
The “mishé” that pampers you with its morlacos |
The least expected day will be bored |
And then like so many mud flowers |
You will go through those streets to beg… |
You win because you are just |
tired meat embryo |
And why your laugh |
It's sweet modulation |
When relentless, the years |
They inject their bitterness into you... |
You'll see that your madness |
They were soap bubbles |