Cananéia, Iguape e Ilha Comprida

That
(What is this?)
No, the rattle has to be played with determination, got it?
Just without giggling, right?
No giggling, because this is rap, man, where people are tough, you know?
The people are bad! Bad! Bad!
To work in this rapper job you have to be bad!
Huh, got it? No giggling, OK?
Does Brown go through this?
Or Djonga? Or Rael? I don't know, man
Here the guys are tough!

Let's go, Nave!

From the bottom of my heart
From the deepest corner inside me, oh
To the decomposing world
I write like someone sending love letters

Children, laughter, and windows
Flirtatious women, braids, yellow chintzes
The red of the tiles, the sparkle of the spark makes you feel like inside a screen
Hope paints in watercolor
Radio static, TVs and soap operas
The bees' stroll, the sheep's agreement in the ears
And life agrees by default

On the cobblestone, intrepid worker
The engine is in the impulse where everything begins
The wind calms the rush, for every eclectic sound
Record players sing classics in a beautiful absurdity
Metropolises suffocate, are necropolises that don't touch
So they clash with someone's dream
They are Sunday killers pausing everything that is beautiful
Everyone who feels this are my friends, too

This one comes from the bottom of my heart
From the deepest corner inside me
To the decomposing world
I write like someone sending love letters
From the bottom of my heart
This one comes from my heart
From the deepest corner inside me, oh
To the decomposing world
(This one is also a form of prayer)
I write like someone sending love letters

Star, Moon, and firefly
Siriris playing school of fish
Bonfire brings stories to relive memories
Noêmia de Souza called it a flame
The night toasts with darkness
The breeze spreads the perfume in your flowers
No escape from the cicada in oratory
So intimate with music that it makes one jealous

On the cobblestone, intrepid worker
The engine is in the impulse where everything begins
The wind calms the rush, for every eclectic sound
Record players sing classics in a beautiful absurdity
Metropolises suffocate, are necropolises that don't touch
So they clash with someone's dream
They are Sunday killers pausing everything that is beautiful
Everyone who feels this are my friends, too

What? Do you want to record too?
Wait, dad has to record again

From the bottom of my heart
(We can put yellow flowers in the girls' hair)
(You can indeed)
From the deepest corner inside me
(And in the boys' too)
To the decomposing world
(So many colors would make life taste like dessert)
I write like someone sending love letters
(Love letters to everyone)
(Everyone! Everyone! Everyone!)
(We'll run out of pens!)