Let's understand how this works:

Someone knows a bit about mechanics
wants a good future, thinks big,
that is, thinks the way the West has
taught him to think, without wasting time
he tidies up his nails and tie, carries a CV under his arm and gets in line
at, let's say, Ford or Peugeot workshops,
it doesn't matter, and with a good-boy face
he applauds when they call his name
and proudly watches thousands of other applicants
go home with their heads down.

He now plays in the big leagues: he hardly
has to do anything, just mass-produce
objects that the public needs:
parts identical to each other. The boss is happy.

The public is happy. The machinery is perfect.

But in Lanús, or Ramos Mejía, who knows,
another good mechanic is born, who instead of
being a good Western citizen,
tell me, playing with pieces of iron,
does it in an old garage that leaks
from all sides, nails here, hammers there,
pushes in a spark plug, files,
while he slugs a liter of beer
and smokes a flowered pipe, builds a
unregistered monstrosity, gets in, drives around the neighborhood, the kids follow him
and he lends them the car, and the horn sounds
like a goose laying chicks,
they'll never let him use that beast
on the highway, it has no class.

That guy will never appear in the guide
of good mechanics, that guy will die

and his beast will be left gathering dust in the shed.

Until another madman discovers it and
makes it run even better. The other one, the employee of the month, will have a little plaque of honor in some gallery. Well, gentlemen, that's something like the world of poetry. There are those who apply for every grant and internship, as the West dictates, and those who swallow the world's misery with their eyes and then go and vomit and wipe their mouths with their sleeves.