Araca Paris
Pianté de Puente Alsina para Montmartre,
que todos me batían pa' m'engrupir:
"Tenés la pinta criolla pa' acomodarte
con la franchuta vieja que va al dancing...
¿Qué hacés en Buenos Aires? ¡No seas otario!
Amura esas milongas del Tabaris;
con tres cortes de tango sos millonario,
morocho y argentino, rey de París."
Araca, París... Salute, París...
Raja de Montmartre; piantate, infeliz...
Araca, París... Salute, París...
Franchutas cancheras que vas a engrupir;
venite pa'l barrio y tendrás milongas,
milongas ligeras que saben amar...
Araca, París... Salute, París...
Raja de Montmartre; piantate, infeliz.
Agarré tren de lujo, loco'e contento,
"Bonsoir, petit, je t'aime... Tu es mon coco!"
con una gorda tuerta con mucho vento,
que no me dio ni medio y me amuró.
Tiré la bronca y, guapo, pa' darme corte,
un tortazo en su ñata se le incrustó...
Comisaría, jueces y el pasaporte,
y terminó mi vida de gigoló.
Araca Paris
I left Puente Alsina for Montmartre,
where everyone tried to impress me:
'You have the look of a local to fit in
with the old French woman who goes to the dance hall...
What are you doing in Buenos Aires? Don't be a fool!
Forget those tangos from Tabaris;
with three tango steps you're a millionaire,
dark and Argentine, king of Paris.'
Araca, Paris... Cheers, Paris...
Get out of Montmartre; scram, you fool...
Araca, Paris... Cheers, Paris...
Cool French women you're going to impress;
come to the neighborhood and you'll have tangos,
light tangos that know how to love...
Araca, Paris... Cheers, Paris...
Get out of Montmartre; scram, you fool.
I caught a luxury train, happy as can be,
'Good evening, little one, I love you... You are my darling!'
with a fat one-eyed woman with a lot of wind,
who didn't give me a thing and ditched me.
I got angry and, tough guy, to show off,
a slap on her nose got stuck...
Police station, judges, and the passport,
and my life as a gigolo ended.
Escrita por: Carlos Cesar Lenzi, Julio Collazo