I am from tall, imprisoning, gray metal bars
Neither much, nor many were truly at pars
A neighborhood of hoodlums and vandals
They very much enjoyed starting scandals
I am from a significantly vulgar kind of Spanish
Now, the memory of it has come to banish

I am from heaped small concrete homes
None decorated with quaint little gnomes
Many pestered by slowly creeping plants
While the air was full of religious chants
I am from a home in grave state of amok
Partly my fault, mostly my brother's luck

Many childhood friends are now corrupted
The malice inside them had finally erupted
I can think of Marco, an early good friend
Many soccer afternoons we would often spend
We both were forced to bear a wretched hot vest
From which we could not stall the awaited divest

For several years my bike was my enjoyment
In errands it was needed my deployment
Careful however, because of earlier mentions
Boors in the shadows lurked, caused an air of tensions
A cool handed breeze past me strongly blew
As I rapidly slid down that hill, it felt like I flew

It was an acceptable existence, it shall do
There were positive inspiring moments too
The memory of Cuentos de Tio Conejo never fades
Celebrating victories of old, followed by parades
The foods that had become so commonplace
Now I miss and have proved too hard to replace
I shall never experience there things again, however
They are all, completely, entirely gone forever...