| Wanting to party, the compadre tells the boss
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| My blood runs wild with this crooked horn
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| Everything is pal corrido and get ready to sing it
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| Not because they look at us morros
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| Think that we are takuaches
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| We bring very good weapons,
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| Cons you already know
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| And we bring a good ticket that makes us look bigger
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| When the boss gives the green light
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| On the fly we put together ranks
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| And even if they skip the errand
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| We can spend the leagues
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| The weros love that we send vitamins
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| I do not know plebada
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| We are not here to scare them away
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| The race is coming ready to roll up everything
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| We are from the ranch school and we are here to teach them
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| And there goes for the whole race of relative Sinaloa
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| buzzards smell blood
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| And they want to eat you alive
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| When one is cornered there that show the fangs
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| Whenever you go down to the water
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| You have to avoid the danger
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| They come from very brave ranches
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| Sinaloa sees them arrive
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| The horns and the pomegranates we use to work
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| And San Judas who takes care of us to enjoy life
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| From Culichi to Mazatlan
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| They always watch them pass
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| I know because I composed this corrido over there
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| Well, I'm also from a ranch
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| And I sing the truth
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| Relative here is my hand I want to congratulate you
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| Because of the life they lead, they don't give him a flight back
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| And why do you enter the business and spend more bills |