To That Asshole (spoken tango with piano)

That guy looks at me from the picture
that came in the new CD I bought,
with his asshole face.

And what can we do
if that's what he is
there is no fix.

Don't tell him about me
'cause he's gonna cuss at you.
The witch, he called me,
when I ruined his plans in Sweden.

He played the bandondeon in a quartet.
It sounded pretty good, I'd say.
I followed them with some girls
-his third world groupies-
to a bar in Barracas
where we drank until
the sunrise surprised us eating pizza at the park.

And what can we do,
if you are an asshole
it's your turn too.

We ended up hating each other,
throwing curses through the distance.
I was in Paris, he, in Stockholm,
stuck there, it was my fault,
or his,
'cause he was an idiot and trusted a woman.

Hate and love share a side
like twins attached by the back.
They don't look face to face
but throw poisoned darts at each other
that hit the butt of the passerby.

And what can we do?
When there is treason
there is grief.
So, if you see him, tell me how he's doing,
but don't tell me the truth, if he's doing well,
lie to me and tell me that he's miserable
that he has no friends and doesn't play anymore
that he's lost in some hovel
drinking whiskey and snorting coke until he bursts.

And if you dare
tell him my name,
but I warn you
he is gonna cuss.



Cuca Esteves
Pinamar, 2007