Poor mother, I, her favorite son,
losing the time with the world,
exhausting my mind
speaking with children
don't mention it, don't mention it.
Destroying the mornings of sun
in dark corridors of the mind
as if puta mind was worth
what ఇస్ వర్త్ a mother.
God, You had to మాక్ me
thousand times wiser, crueler,
to command to the ప్రేసిపిస్
to these evil been born.
Rotted while still alive,
malpariendo lies to joder to this world
with the unfortunate stammering
of the remainders in a belly
that did not know to abort.
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