The big seagull sat on the bow of my rowing boat
on my way to Argentina and Rosita,
which I never met she had married guitar player-
had unfriendly eyes ready to peck my eyes out.
I regretted my heroism.
I wanted to go to Argentina because of its pampas
Beautiful horses and also to be famous for the voyage
I was picked up by a merchant ship
it was actually going the wrong way docked in Antwerp
Free beer for the, would be the hero.
I got a job on an old steamer bound for Argentina.
A City with so many beautiful women it took a long
before I got my stead looking for the tree of wisdom.
I found it burning in the night
the Gauchos were feeling cold and set fire to the tree.
What matters is the journey which is a fine sentence to cover for absolute failure.