Every night, at eight o'clock, I take the path down the mountain. And then I hop on the bus that goes to Copacabana. I have bathed, I have showered, smells good all over the body. And then I start to walk. I hear the moon looking at me. Dancing samba with me. If you walk on Copacabana, you hear the sea to the left. Although I look straight ahead and see who I meet. Do they look like they want to dance? Can they buy my samba? The one who sprints can walk, because I can stand being looked at. Dancing samba with me. Do you want to learn my samba under the moon on the beach? I can whistle the melody, with a few tricks I will beat the beat. And if you want to love, we have arrived at a place. It is forbidden, of course. But the hotel is so very sad. Dancing samba with me. I'm good, I'm good. If you have time and money, you buy my samba. I'm good, I'm good. Dancing samba with me. Between the floating flamenco and the fagra in Palema. There are the hot beaches of Orica, but the poor in Rio. And right above all the others, the highest color starts. The wind is blowing, the sun is burning. There is grief that is not felt. Dancing samba with me.
