The time for flamenco is over, dishonored Mr Franco
We're living in a time of knives, we're in Grimau time
You don't care about the procedures that cast shadows on the walls
When the executioner gives the tempo, Franco la Muerte
You married the grim reaper to better fuck the comrades
The anarchists who get snitched while Europe babbles
Who cares if Spain is dead, listen to Death at your front door
It's Grimau who brings it back to you, Franco la Muerte
You sleep with some Penelope who weaves a shroud below Europe
On that Spain that you're stopping, until it catches you
The important for you is to make it last... You, you don't do literature
You're not Lorca, you're his waste, Franco la Muerte
Comes the time of poetry that will drag you out of bed
When our knives will nestle in the heart of your last night
This night of deseada towards the clear dawn of grenades/pomgranates
And the Spain of comrades. España la vida