I can understand it if I try hard enough,
All the twisted R’s and accents like birds in flight
The tongue twirling in fisted knots tough
As the pachuco on the corner trying to get right
Calling out to the ladies in deep whistles and growls,
“Hola baby,” and then as if he were wounded he howls
At the next short skirt slit six inches above the knee,
Barely hiding something the way I do on the street
When I’m pretending I’m lost in my own movie scene
So when he tries his tactics to get my attention
I front like I know him from juvenile detention
Or as if I couldn’t possibly know what “Hola” means,
And when he tries to lure me, saying there’s something I forgot,
He thinks he’s making it up, but I know he’s not.