Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bienvenido al secadero, artist - Marea. Album song En mi hambre mando yo, in the genre Иностранный рок
Date of issue: 22.09.2011
Record label: Warner Music Spain
Song language: Spanish
Bienvenido al secadero(original) |
Agua que reconcome, desgasta y taladra |
No mojará mi posada sin luz |
Que aquí me atrevo a enjaularla y decirle de todo |
Y se me enamora |
Vuelve cuando me encuentro salvando los muebles |
Para apilarlos y darles de arder |
Para que ría y se haga de día sin amanecer |
Sabe que la convido a comerse las llaves |
Del purgatorio de mi naufragar |
Que no conozco yesaire tan fino que luzca mi carraspera |
Y temple mi torpe envite de acero caliente |
Para joder con las patas de atrás |
Y dar la vuelta y buscar la reyerta en otro trashumar |
Bienvenido al secadero, ven a ver el desconcierto |
Que tocan a muerto los kinkis besando con saña, los poligoneros |
Los faquires que se acuestan junto a mí |
Y apuntalan, escupiendo al viento, mis entrañas de viejo |
Saca pa' los mosquitos el clavo y la albahaca |
Que una ambrosía por fin sacaré |
De mis recuerdos infectos en donde no flotan las carabelas |
Llenas de redileo, trasquile y cadenas |
Pero este sauce quiere sonreír |
Y en adelante le queda el desplante para resistir |
(translation) |
Water that eats, wears and drills |
It will not wet my inn without light |
That here I dare to cage her and tell her about everything |
and she falls in love with me |
Come back when I'm saving the furniture |
To stack 'em up and set 'em on fire |
So that it laughs and becomes day without dawn |
She knows that I invited her to eat the keys |
From the purgatory of my shipwreck |
That I don't know plaster so fine that my scratchy throat looks |
And temper my clumsy thrust of hot steel |
To fuck with the legs from behind |
And turn around and look for the brawl in another wandering |
Welcome to the dryer, come see the bewilderment |
That the kinkis touch the dead kissing viciously, the polygoneros |
The fakirs who lie next to me |
And they prop up, spitting into the wind, my entrails of old |
Take out the clove and basil for the mosquitoes |
That an ambrosia I will finally take out |
Of my infected memories where the caravels do not float |
Full of sheepfolds, shears and chains |
But this willow wants to smile |
And from now on he has the rudeness to resist |