Lyrics of Yo Me Bajo en Atocha - Joaquín Sabina

Yo Me Bajo en Atocha (original)

Con su boina calada, con sus guantes de seda
Su sirena varada, sus fiestas de guardar
Su vuelva usted mañana, su salvese quien pueda,.
Su partidita de mus, su fulanita de tal
Con su todo es ahora, con su nada es eterno
Con su rap y su chotis, con su okupa y su skin
Aunque muera el verano y tenga prisa el invierno
La primavera sabe que la espero en Madrid
Con su otoño Velázquez, con su Torre Picasso
Su santo y su torero, su Atleti, su Borbón
Sus gordas de Botero, sus hoteles de paso
Su taleguito de hash, sus abuelitos al sol
Con su hoguera de nieve, su verbena y su duelo
Su dieciocho de julio, su catorce de abril
A mitad de camino entre el infierno y el cielo…
Yo me bajo en Atocha, yo me quedo en Madrid
Aunque la noche delire como un pájaro en llamas
Aunque no dé a la gloria la Puerta de Alcalá
Aunque la maja desnuda cobre quince y la cama
Aunque la maja vestida no se deje besar
«Pasarelas Cibeles», cárcel de Yeserías
Puente de los Franceses, tascas de Chamberí
Ya no sueña aquel niño que soñó que escribía
Corazón de María, no me dejes así…
Corte de los Milagros, Virgen de la Almudena
Chabolas de uralita, Palacio de Cristal
Con su «no pasarán» con sus «vivan las caenas»
Su cementerio civil, su banda municipal
He llorado en Venecia
Me he perdido en Manhattan
He crecido en La Habana, he sido un paria en París
México me atormenta, Buenos Aires me mata
Pero siempre hay un tren
Que desemboca en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un niño que envejece en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un coche que derrapa en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un fuego
Que se enciende en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un barco que naufraga en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un sueño
Que despierta en Madrid
Pero siempre hay un vuelo de regreso a Madrid

(translation)

With his openwork beret, with his silk gloves
Your stranded mermaid, your keep parties
If you come back tomorrow, save whoever can,.
His little game of mus, his little so-and-so
With his everything is now, with his nothing is eternal
With his rap and his chotis, with his squat and his skin
Even if summer dies and winter is in a hurry
Spring knows that I wait for it in Madrid
With his autumn Velázquez, with his Torre Picasso
His saint and his bullfighter, his Atleti, his Bourbon
His fat women from Botero, his passing hotels
His hash bag, his grandparents in the sun
With its snow bonfire, its festival and its duel
His eighteenth of July, his fourteenth of April
Half way between hell and heaven...
I get off at Atocha, I stay in Madrid
Although the night raves like a bird on fire
Although the Puerta de Alcalá does not give glory
Although the naked maja charges fifteen and the bed
Although the dressed maja does not allow herself to be kissed
“Cibeles Footbridges”, Yeserías prison
French Bridge, Chamberí taverns
That boy who dreamed he wrote no longer dreams
Heart of Mary, do not leave me like this...
Court of Miracles, Virgin of the Almudena
Uralita shantytown, Crystal Palace
With their "they will not pass" with their "long live the caenas"
Its civil cemetery, its municipal band
I have cried in Venice
I got lost in Manhattan
I have grown up in Havana, I have been an outcast in Paris
Mexico torments me, Buenos Aires kills me
But there's always a train
Which ends in Madrid
But there is always a child who grows old in Madrid
But there is always a car that skids in Madrid
But there's always a fire
That lights up in Madrid
But there is always a ship that sinks in Madrid
But there's always a dream
Who wakes up in Madrid
But there is always a flight back to Madrid