what the campesino was overheard saying under the influence of mescal

Potosi, some boliche somewhere. Tourists all around talking about the shortage of proper clothes shops in this dirt-poor city. Indios in ponchos and wild dogs harrasing decent fee-paying visitors. Can't get a decent windcheater for love not money. A few locals wearing sandals and talking turkey. One of them's talking from the heart:

No tengo plata.
No tengo casa.
Amigos son flaky.
No me importa.
Tengo mi cabeza.
Tengo esperanza que ustedes no pueden matar.
Ya se lo que soy.
A la mierda con esta montana de plata que no serve a nadia. Da me un trago mas.
O que me mata o que no.

(verbatim - forgive any poverty in spanish text - corrections welcome - we do our best on muntant butoh, but know our editorial limitations)