ESOS LOCOS BAJITOS
(THOSE CRAZY LITTLE SHORTIES)

Lyrics and music by J.M. Serrat

Translation by Coby Lubliner

A menudo los hijos se nos parecen, así nos dan la primera satisfacción; ésos que se menean con nuestros gestos, echando mano a cuanto hay a su alrededor. Esos locos bajitos que se incorporan con los ojos abiertos de par en par, sin respeto al horario ni a las costumbres y a los que, por su bien, hay que domesticar. Niño, deja ya de joder con la pelota. Niño, que eso no se dice, que eso no se hace, que eso no se toca. Cargan con nuestros dioses y nuestro idioma, nuestros rencores y nuestro porvenir. Por eso nos parece que son de goma y que les bastan nuestros cuentos para dormir. Nos empeñamos en dirigir sus vidas sin saber el oficio y sin vocación. Les vamos trasmitiendo nuestras frustraciones con la leche templada y en cada canción. Niño, deja ya de joder con la pelota. Niño, que eso no se dice, que eso no se hace, que eso no se toca. Nada ni nadie puede impedir que sufran, que las agujas avancen en el reloj, que decidan por ellos, que se equivoquen, que crezcan y que un día nos digan adiós.

Very often our children seem to be like us, And our first satisfaction that way is found; The ones that move about as they use our gestures, And put their little hand into whatever’s around. Those crazy little shorties that we see sitting Up with their eyes wide open beneath their hood, Who don’t respect our schedules or our old habits And who have to be tamed, yes, for their own good. Kid, hey, stop fooling with the ball that you are clutching. Kid, hey, no, you mustn’t say that, No, you mustn’t do that, no, that’s not for touching. Our gods and our language are in their system. Our grudges, our future are theirs to keep. That’s why they only seem to need us to kiss them And then to tell them a story to put them to sleep. We keep on trying to steer their lives, but We don’t know our job, we just muddle along. All we do is transmit to them our frustrations With their glass of warm milk and in every song Kid, hey, stop fooling with the ball that you are clutching. Kid, hey, no, you mustn’t say that, No, you mustn’t do that, no, that’s not for touching. No one and nothing can prevent their suffering Or the hands on the clock from going by. They will make their mistakes when they make decisions, They’ll grow and then one day they will tell us good-bye