In this street there were
Spanish people who did not dare to show
That they were old refugees
That the idiots and the kings had fled
In this street there were
The French were unlucky
They wrote "Vive la France"
On the front of their house
In this street there were
Proud Portuguese people like
The jailers of poverty
A few fruit trees
And the modesty of the earth,
It was
My street, my family
The mothers who shout
It was: go play marbles
It was my street
It wasn't Manila
No it wasn't the West Indies
The hammer or the sickle
It was my street
The vanilla ice creams
And the little ones that wiggle
Who weren't so nice
It was my street
Hello eels
The condés who crisscross us
But it wasn't my Bastille
It was my street
In this street there was
L 'Africa and its mea-culpa
To have another god I believe
There we found idiots and crosses
In this street were
All the workers of the land
They built their feet on the ground
That they will never live in
In this street there were
Caravans like
Wagons of the anger
They are not afraid of winter
Of the fury of the earth
In this street I believe
The children were not made of ice
When the ice cream truck was passing
We were shooting foreign languages
We were in the woods
We had bows and arrows
When others had fishing rods
But she doesn't want school
One day we got angry
We burned everything, we weren't afraid of hell
When we woke up
br/>Behind iron bars
For you
My street, my family
Moms screaming
It was: go play marbles
C was my street

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