| Village of Meia Praia
|
| Right there at the foot of Lagos
|
| I will make you a song
|
| The best I know and I do
|
| From Montegordo came
|
| Some on their own feet
|
| One arrived by bicycle
|
| Another went into reverse
|
| When your eyes stumble
|
| In the flight of a seagull
|
| Instead of fish, you see pieces of gold
|
| falling into the lot
|
| who comes to live here
|
| Do not bring table or bed
|
| With seven palms of earth
|
| A hut is built
|
| You work all year
|
| At the lotta they leave you naked
|
| They suck you to the bone
|
| They take your scalp
|
| I wish we had
|
| From Augustine to valiance
|
| To feed the blood
|
| Deceiving the bourgeoisie
|
| Goodbye said to Montegordo
|
| Nothing holds you back to the bad past
|
| But nothing holds you to the present
|
| If only he is the deceived
|
| eight thousand hours counted
|
| They worked according to
|
| Until the first came
|
| authenticated document
|
| They were women and children
|
| Each one with its own brick
|
| This here was an orchestra
|
| Anyone who says otherwise is a fool
|
| And if the bad language does not stop
|
| I live here don't leave
|
| Because nothing erases nobility
|
| Of the Indians of Meia-Praia
|
| It was always your figure
|
| Shark of thousand-shavings
|
| you leave everything up to
|
| When in the prison you repair
|
| of the finished elections
|
| From the expected result
|
| What you have seen came out
|
| Many works embargoed
|
| But not willingly
|
| Because the fight continues
|
| Well, his story is his
|
| And the people went out into the street
|
| High finance trustees
|
| They make everything go backwards
|
| They say that the world only walks
|
| Having a foreman in front
|
| They were women and children
|
| Each one with its own brick
|
| This here was an orchestra
|
| Who says the opposite is foolish
|
| And paperwork
|
| In the coming and going of ministries
|
| But they will run away screaming
|
| Even the band goes on the road |