Girl, girl, little girl
Girl, girl, little girl
Not even Zumbi would stop you from being mine
Oh mom, my mom, my dear mom
In the slave quarters, my room
I'm protected by Oxalá
Queen Iansan's anxiety
Girl, I am your man
Come and clap, girl
Let's make some drums in the kitchen
'If this girl were mine
I would teach her how to live
I'd give her beans with flour
All week long
For her to eat'
She comes from the capoeira
On foot, a whole half
In Pelourinho, my hair is stirred up
A mass, quimbanda, poetry
Aruandê, arandá
I'll sing because
Singing is a letter of manumission
'Women are like snakes
They have poison in their blood
They make a rich man turn into a poor man
They make the poor man shameless'
The former carnation now is a rose
The subject of your whims
Samba, at the lambada
The king of Congo is at the congada
He already has a painful look in his face
Let me be your savior
Please want to be my Bahia
Zumbi is at the capoeira, at the jongo
Zumbi is at the capoeira, at the jongo
Clap your hands, Zumbi, at the mess
Clap your hands, Zumbi, batmacumba
This work has been done by Alma Barroca. In case you want to use it elsewhere, please ask for permission - if given, my name must be always mentioned as the author. If I find my works being reprinted without permission I will request for it to be removed.