El bulín de la calle Ayacucho
El bulín de la calle Ayacucho (The Place on Ayacucho Street) is the title of a tango written by Celedonio Flores in 1925. the music was composed by José Servidio and Luis Servidio.
Lyrics writer(s):
From the dark present, the poet longs for all the good moments spent in his bachelor room among friends, mate, music and love. The friends are gone, his beloved is dead, and today the room is only a faded, sad corner in a tenement house.
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Lyrics
El bulín de la calle Ayacucho,
que en mis tiempos de rana alquilaba,
el bulín que la barra buscaba
para caer por la noche a timbear,
el bulín donde tantos muchachos,
en su racha de vida fulera,
encontraron marroco y catrera,
desolado, parece llorar.
El primus no me fallaba
con su carga de aguardiente
y habiendo agua caliente
el mate era allí señor.
No faltaba la guitarra
bien encordada y lustrosa
ni el bacán de voz gangosa
con berretín de cantor.
El bulín de la calle Ayacucho
ha quedado mistongo y fulero:
ya no se oye el cantor milonguero,
engrupido, su musa entonar.
Y en el primus no bulle la pava
que a la barra contenta reunía
y el bacán de la rante alegría
está seco de tanto llorar.
Cada cosa era un recuerdo
que la vida me amargaba:
por eso me la pasaba
fulero, rante y tristón.
Los muchachos se cortaron
al verme tan afligido
y yo me quedé en el nido
empollando mi aflicción.
Cotorrito mistongo, tirado
en el fondo de aquel conventillo,
sin alfombras, sin lujo y sin brillo,
¡cuántos días felices pasé,
al calor del querer de una piba
que fue mía, mimosa y sincera!
¡Y una noche de invierno, fulera,
hasta el cielo de un vuelo se fue!
The place on Ayacucho Street
that I would rent in my quick-witted days,
the place the gang looked for
to show up for a night of gambling,
the place where so many lads
on a streak of tough life
found bread and bed,
desolate, now seems to cry.
The primus[1] never failed
with its load of spirits
and since there was hot water,
the mate was king.
The guitar was never missing,
well strung and shiny,
nor the bacán with the nasal voice
and his mania berretín for singing.
The little place on Ayacucho Street
has been left wretched and ugly:
one can’t hear that milonguero singer,
conceited, singing in tune with his muse anymore.
And on the primus the kettle doesn’t bubble,
the same kettle that once gathered the merry crowd,
and the bacán with the rante[2] joy
is now dry from so much crying.
Everything was a memory
that embittered my life:
that’s why I spent my time
miserable, rante and downhearted.
The guys have made themselves scarce
when they saw me so distraught
and I stayed in the nest
incubating my sorrow.
Poor little home[3], tossed
into the bottom of that conventillo ,
without a carpet, luxury nor shine...
How many happy days I spent
by the warmth of the love of a girl
that was mine, affectionate and sincere!
And then one ugly Winter night,
she suddenly flew all the way to heaven!