In Mexico you rub elbows with cholos.
With their thick gams shaved; in a fake voice high
They say, "¡Hola!"
H-O-L-A, hola.
They walk like they ought to be wearing some pants,
They don't look like dames,
It's dark--you see they're boys sporting lolas,
L-O-L-A, lolas

Well, it turned out they were Chilean guys
Who are pleased to dress like girls, so they're lying
That they're cholas,
Not cholos, but cholas.
Well, I'm not dumb, but yo no comprendo
Why they'd dress up like women,
Have to amend so
With fake lolas, faux, faux, faux lolas;
Camouflaging pollas.

With their fat gams shaved, they don't dance light,
Each one with handle held in tight.
When they sit down and then they cross their knees--
Antithesis of femininity.

They do not look like apasionadas
How they swagger, I'd see them in opera buffas.
In the argot lingo of the Argentinos,
They might be called bufos who misuse their polos.

They put on play,
There is no ardor,
Though each sports a flor.
They yell in high C,
But you look at "her" and you see "he."

One went astray when he put in his stays,
And so now his chest is moving sideways,
For this chola, there are no more lolas.
These boys are trying hard to be girls,
But when they fixed up their hair to put in curls,
They used no rollers,
Though they've got nice ropa.

Well they'd left home just a week before,
And they'd never ever dressed as women before.
Their lolas needed to be better planned
So they would not sag down, rather proudly stand.

So now they're rethinking masculine nouns
And they've got pinking shears, working on their new gowns,
For some new ropa,
Ro-ro-ro-ro ropa; work on the lo-lolas,
Lolas, so they can be cholas and hide their pistolas.