Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

She won't be kept happy by her nights on the tiles
Don’t cry For BTC Argentina...
Eva Duarte?
The decline of Argentina
I want to be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires, Big Apple.
Where am I going to?
No one else can fill it like I can
Hidden from view At my grandparents funeral
Could there be
Well, maybe not that fine
You can tell you've done well By the happy, grateful looks
I'm their saviour
Don't keep your distance
I'm praying for you
Eyes! Hair! Mouth! Figure!
Understands you, is one of you
I am only a simple woman
So do up your trousers and go
But once they allow a bit on the side
Before turning my back on the past
The answer was here all the time
Backs to the wall! Aim high!
The voice of Argentina!
You'd like to hear
How unfortunate this person
High flying, adored,
But if you're prettier than General Franco
We shall see, little man!
- Where am I going to? - You'll get by, you always have before.
Don't hold back You are certain to impress
But not here, dear. Is that clear, dear?
She's lost a little of that magic drive
On making it in movies with her name in lights
The lights were gone
Which has to imply I'd be good for you
She's slowing down
Don't cry for me, Argentina
She's not coming back to you
The voice of the people
She sure had the chance
Your queen is dead, your king is through
Take me in at your flood, give me speed Give me lights, set me humming
Figures get in the way
Beautiful town
Where you are.
Tell me before you get onto your high horse
That would rise for the girl
When the money keeps rolling out, You don't keep books.
It's hungry and cold
Having to get a majority.
Make me special
Tarts have become the set to know.
completed your task
I'm still called an admiral
There is no one, no one at all
How the dirty city feels and looks
From every side
With the splendour
Plays for evermore.
Could 50
Things that I'm longing to say
A beautiful reminder of the carefree days
Because you oughta know What you're gonna get in me
It is my sad duty to inform you
How will we ever get by without her?
She nearly captured the French
Rolling, rolling, rolling Rolling, rolling, rolling
All my words desert me
Fill me up with your heat With your noise, with your dirt, overdo me
I could burn
So I chose freedom
Good night and thank you, Emilio
I'm still standing
The shooting sticks
One smothers light
The town of San Juan.
When someone pretty lower class
Of each sad occasion
Face! Diamonds! Excitement! Image!
Don't keep your distance