Devil's Cross!

Zippo, which was in crumbs,
he was sent on a dive
hissing at his bad luck
without a co-pilot or anything.
Zippo is on his way to hell
dashing off:
he didn't know how to distribute his chips
and his sky darkens.
He was never a smart man of pesos,
always a smart man of cents.
His mouth burns with curses
that are swallowed badly.
He goes shouting: Devil's Cross!
out of pure courtesy.
The Anthem of Tangopolis tells him
(Like in his ear...)
that his adventures stick badly
and announce little.
The guy matured early
and rotted very soon,
a mud that suffocates that eel
is the savagery.
If the dog is tame
he eats the garbage and says nothing;
they count his ribs with a stick,
laughing out loud.
Too many bruises,
very few enchantments.
There are so many cooks
that spoil the soup.
His rock and roll bleeds ears,
since God tricked him with the ticket.
Zippo, a laugh of a thousand teeth
loaded with sulfur.