They are there, where the blue-collar workers go,
The carpenters, mechanics, those who toil with their hands
All gravitate toward congales en la 14th, la marketa, to quaff a few...
Or moreLike in Carl's Chicago, the barrio boys are lured by ladies,
Painted ladies, hanging around neon-lighted doors
giving them the "c'mon bato" look
And like Ulysses' sailors, the shrimpers and the batos bite
and reeled inside, are fleeced and cleaned of their months' work
to exit, pennyless and drunk, filled with illusions
of rounded breasts, a flash of chocolate thighs, a furtive look...
(At a nearby table, the new girls giggle
as a sharp faced cantinera rifles through the old man's pocket as he sleeps)
Then, hog-tied and pig-drunk
they catch a ride back to the port (or to Southmost)
Head to Ithaca again
to toil, slave o'er the drink, o en el jale
And months from now, again, they'll crawl the pubs
congales, bars,
enticed by cheap perfume a brassy band, and neon lights
to drink, and dream and then...crudos in the sty again
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