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Jiggy Jiggy Bum

Versión de Woody Guthrie
I walked out on a sagebrush hill,
Thought I'd find me a hog to kill.
I heard a big squeal and up jumped one,
I pulled my trigger and drug him home.

Jiggy, jiggy, bum, bum
Hey piggy, run, run.
Jiggy, jiggy, bum, bum
And a hey piggy, run.

Tied my rope around his feet,
Swung him up and the meal did bleed.
Middle of the night the gray wolf come
Take his wife and family some.

Grab my gun and run to the hill,
Standing up around the old wind mill.
I says, "Gray wolf, if you come to steal,
I'll slit your belly and hang you by the heels."

"Old Mr. Ranchman," the gray wolf said,
"My eleven little babies are starving dead."
I said, "Gray wolf, I'm troubled myself,
'Cause I've got a wife and children twelve."

And the old gray wolf made the big run,
Made me jump and I dropped my gun.
Took my gun and throwed it in the well,
Durn the old gray wolf's soul to hell.

Well, the old gray wolf run back to the mill
Seen my hog a-hanging by his heels.
Filled up his belly from the puddle of blood,
Then he grabbed my hog and struck for home.

Well I tore for my house and I woke my kids,
Told my wife what the gray wolf did.
And the old lady hollered and the kids they yelled.
They lit out over the gray wolf's trail.

'Fore daylight we trailed him home
In a great big cave where the batses roam.
Sent my wife and children in.
I waited outside in the northern wind.

First out flew the gray wolf's nose,
Then out flew its Sunday clothes.
Then out sailed its hair and hide,
And then out come my kids and wife.

Everybody had a sandwich in his hand,
Every girl had a slice of Virginia ham.
My wife had a hambone slick and long.
We slipped and slid the whole road home.

Well we got home, jumped in bed,
Pulled the covers over our head,
We laughed at that wolf and licked the bone,
And this is the last of wild hog's song.







el 22/11/2022

Pablo Milanés, uno de los más importantes trovadores de los últimos años, ha fallecido esta noche a los 79 años, tras permanecer ingresado en Madrid durante más de una semana, informaron medios oficiales.


por Frank Carlos Nájera el 22/11/2022

En las noches tristes, escribo. Dormir no apetece ni apremia. La tristeza se canaliza y empieza a formar palabras, y las palabras se me venden como necesarias, y yo las compro y las consumo creyendo que las voy creando. Nunca he sido fumador. Fumo palabras y entre el humo de las noticias voy rodeando la imagen de un rostro muy familiar.