whenever i moan & bitch 'bout the mess i'm in
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i pick up the phone & order some mexican
i worry 'bout life, i fret over chaos
but my bag is now rife with a sackful of tacos
my life, what is left of it, my horas and dias
is now counted out in hot quesadillas
& when i say hot, as you know & we know
there's nothing that's not like a ripe jalapeno
bring the salt & the lime, a cool margarita
is it my only fault that i wanna senorita?
to wake me tomorrow & make me some flan
and say, 'ey yo flaco, you gotta new plan?