El bulín de la calle Ayacucho,
que en mis tiempos de rana alquilaba,
el bulín que la barra buscaba
para caer por la noche a timbear,
el bulín donde tantos muchachos,
en su racha de vida fulera,
encontraron marroco y catrera
desolado, parece llorar.
El primus no me fallaba
con su carga de aguardiente
y habiendo agua caliente
el mate era allí señor.
No faltaba la guitarra
bien encordada y lustrosa
ni el bacán de voz gangosa
con berretín de cantor.
The little room in Ayacucho street,
that I used to rent when I was young,
that room where the gang would look for
to play dice and cards at night,
the little room where so many young men,
in their streak of erratic life,
found food and bed,
now, desolated, seems to cry.
The little stove never failed,
fed by alcohol,
And as we had hot water,
mate was the king there.
The guitar was always there,
well strung and shiny,
and so was the dandy with his nasal voice,
fancying himself to be a singer.