Murio el malevo

Updated 10/19/10 

MURIO EL MALEVO

The street fighter died (1953)

LYRICS by: Carlos Waiss

MUSIC by: Hector Varela

TRANSLATION by: Alberto Paz

Last updated on: 10/8/10

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Sing along with Rodolfo Lesica with the Hector Varela orchestra

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CASTELLANO

ENGLISH

El barrio rezonga, se ha muerto el malevo que triste y callado quedo el arrabal la noche parece vestirse de duelo y tiembla la sangre que enluta un puñal.  Pensar que un mocoso de puro atrevido busco madrugarlo para hacerse cartel y en cuanto el malevo tanteaba el cuchillo tenia hasta el mango clavado el de el. La cortada lloro sangre y apretandose la herida fue boqueando en su agonia por el viejo callejon Ni una mano ni un amigo, le ayudo a cerrar los ojos Ni unos tibios labios rojos le rezaron un adios. (Recitado) Pobre guapo, lo achuraron como a res de matadero y hoy, y hoy a cada conventillo, llega un cacho de emocion (Cantado) En la ronda de un boliche, entonandose un gargero mientras cuenta alguna hazaña por el malevo que murio. “Lo vieron plantado, guapear sin alardes jugarse una carta de frente a un rival copando un cariño de dos ojos negros manojos de celos de aquel arrabal.” La Tierra del Fuego no pudo domarlo diez años de carcel su hombrada pago. Su pobre viejita de tanto llorarlo mordiendo su angustia de pena murio.

The neighborhood grumbles, has died the street fighter how sad and quiet the suburb has become the night seems to dress up with mourning and the blood trembles casting a shadow over a dagger.  To think that an insolent brat punk tried to catch him off guard to show off and as the brawler fumbled for his knife he already had the other’s buried to the handle into him. The wound wept blood, and clutching the wound he was gasping in agony by the old alley Not a hand or a friend helped him close his eyes Nor any warm red lips prayed him a goodbye. (Recited) Poor fighter, they gut him like a slaughterhouse’s cow and today, and today to each tenement, there comes a piece of emotion (Sung) In the round of a cantina, alcohol in the windpipe there is a telling of some feat of the fighter who died. “The saw him standing up, defiant without fanfare Taking a stand in front of a rival monopolizing the fondness of two black eyes bunchs of jealousy from that suburb.” Tierra del Fuego could not tame him ten years in jail, he paid for his manly act. His poor old mother, from crying so much biting her anguish, she died of heartache.

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