CORRIENTES
Y ESMERALDA.

The toughs quieted down by your beveled corners when a fancy gentleman landed cross punches on them, and the rough gangs brought you renown back in the year... nineteen hundred and two... Buenos Aires corner, your rough nighttime crowd becomes a blend of cane spirits and gin fizz, pase inglés and monte, baccarat and numbers bets, grappa drunks and women crazed by snuffing cocaine. The Odeón puts on its Royal Academy airs, while the old Pigall resounds with tangos, and the aching, anemic soul stakes its last as it waits for the tram back to its neighborhood.

North along Esmeralda, toward Retiro, pretty French women turn up at nightfall to pick up a client if the chance comes within reach, dodging the watchful eye of the policeman. On your corner one day, Milonguita, that pretty local girl whom Linnig spoke of, carrying a bundle of humble clothes, perhaps met the man of tragedy...

Carlos de la Púa writes of you in poems, and poor Contursi was your faithful friend... On your roguish corner, any nobody dreams of having Carlos Gardel's looks. Buenos Aires corner, this man of the milonga offers you his deepest, warmest affection. When I am even with life, nil to nil, I promise you the most roguish, jailhouse verse to make the tango that will make you immortal.