Devoto

When this week comes, that's when I most wish for rain
when the cassock appears in La Macarena or Triana
glorious vocation that runs through your veins like a tree
no longer saves you from this issue, not even Antonio Burgos
who are you scamming, brother?
the state is secular, your illegal choice, no one knows?
here they come
the hordes that every year occupy and fill Seville with crap like a herd
I'm ashamed to see you as a Christian, I worship no one
I cry, I pierce your hand, brother, your gold doesn't fall but I win
when some jerk throws a firecracker
you lose charity and step on others like a wildcat
forget about your buddy if he lives in the center
forget about UFOs, life is lived from within
I find every slowpoke that doesn't let you move forward
in this situation, I would like to fly like the fifth element
and the city council... doesn't prohibit it
they exhibit, they repeat because they survive
unlike some poor devil waiting for paradise
he left this world with his blood on the shafts
there's always a poor guy working and a stuck-up rich kid
the foreman drinks whiskey, sharp as a tack
however it is, it doesn't matter, this crap no one understands (no one understands)
why don't they take out floats in the three thousand homes?
Devotees, they suffer heat with cameras
they take over the city but this year I explode
why do they call it folklore if it doesn't work
the wax from your candles will stay on my soles
how many capillitas with little hats are left to be amazed
how many cheap religious pictures
Tote King is clear, I'm not a sheep, damn
this Holy Week to the beach
Don't be surprised to see some lost tourists scared shitless
thinking the Ku Klux Klan is following them
let's get a half and half for Holy Thursday
like at the fair, I pray and then I sing
of gold and cloak, and a terrifying choreography
a work of craftsmanship is all I tell, I endure
Tote, don't be exaggerated, it's something popular, man
like the game... that's why I don't trust
parishioner, what do you think, that I stress you out
you won't make it to the end of the month, migrate to Everest
and take Lopera in swimwear
pick his pocket, cause him harm, shave his pussy
yes, I'm a modern barbarian anti-mysticism
bring me something liturgical and I'll vomit right here
for Palm Sunday I have some precious stored shorts
with green ruffles and pink kangaroos
I have other penitent buddies
they pass around candies that they later give away in hot spots
don't make me tell you more things that I know
your holy week... go and flagellate yourself
Devotees, they suffer heat with cameras
they take over the city but this year I explode
why do they call it folklore if it doesn't work
the wax from your candles will stay on my soles
how many capillitas with little hats are left to be amazed
how many cheap religious pictures
Tote King is clear, I'm not a sheep, damn
this Holy Week to the beach