traz a lenha pro fogão

On fluttering arms and rhinestone lashes, the feathered passistas TOK-a-chica-ed to the front of the stage. The breath we’d been holding was swallowed by the bateria, this time in four-part harmony:

“Vem Magalenha rojão, traz a lenha pro fogão,
vem fazer armação.
Hoje é um dia de sol, alegria de coió,
é curtir o verão.”

Every hair on my arm whispered “vem.”


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