A mis cuarenta y diez
Cuarenta y nueve dicen que aparento
Más antes que después
He de enfrentarme al delicado momento
De empezar a pensar
En recogerme, de sentar la cabeza
De resignarme a dictar testamento
Perdón por la tristeza
Para que mis allegados, condenados
A un ingrato futuro
No sufran lo que he sufrido, he decidido
No dejarles ni un duro
Sólo derechos de amor
Un siete en el corazón y un mar de dudas
A condición de que no
Los malvendan, en el rastro, mis viudas

Y, cuando, a mi Rocío
Le escueza el alma y pase la varicela
Y, un rojo escalofrío
Marque la edad del pavo de mi Carmela
Tendrán un mal ejemplo, un hulla hop
Y un D'Artacán que les ladre
Por cada beso que les regateó
El fanfarrón de su padre

Pero sin prisas, que, a las misas
De réquiem, nunca fui aficionado
Que, el traje de madera, que estrenaré
No está siquiera plantado
Que, el cura, que ha de darme la extremaunción
No es todavía monaguillo
Que, para ser comercial, a esta canción
Le falta un buen estribillo

Desde que salgo con la pálida dama
Ando más muerto que vivo
Pero dormir el sueño eterno en su cama
Me parece excesivo
Y, eso que nunca he renunciado a buscar
En unos labios abiertos
Dicen que hay besos de esos que, te los dan
Y resucitan a un muerto

Y, si a mi tumba, os acercáis de visita
El día de mi cumpleaños
Y no os atiendo, esperadme, en la salita
Hasta que vuelva del baño
A quién le puede importar
Después de muerto, que uno tenga sus vicios
El día del juicio final
Puede que Dios sea mi abogado de oficio

Pero sin prisas, que, a las misas
De réquiem, nunca fui aficionado
Que, el traje de madera, que estrenaré
No está siquiera plantado
Que, el cura, que ha de darme la extremaunción
No es todavía monaguillo
Que, para ser comercial, a esta canción
Le falta un buen estribillo

Pero sin prisas, que, a las misas
De réquiem, nunca fui aficionado
Que, el traje de madera, que estrenaré
No está siquiera plantado
Que el párroco que escuche mi confesión
No es todavía monaguillo
Que, para ser comercial, a esta canción
Le falta un buen estribillo

Pero sin prisas, que, a las misas
De réquiem, nunca fui aficionado
Que, el traje de madera, que estrenaré
No está siquiera probado
Que el párroco que escuche mi confesión
No es todavía monaguillo
Que, para ser comercial, a esta canción
Le falta un buen estribillo


Lyrics submitted by Fistan

A Mis Cuarenta y Diez Lyrics as written by Joaquin Ramon Sabina Antonio Manuel Vicente Oliver

Lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

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