São Paulo Ballad 7

São Paulo Ballad 7

An ocean of people, and they pile them up high.
In eighty-flat-boxes, twenty storeys ore more,
For those with the well paid jobs, those, who get by,
Who are not left as the driftwood at the cities far shore.
Some rich ones have houses, encircled by walls
To keep others out, and fence themselves in.
High security castles, with climatised halls,
To hide them away from their brother and kin.

People are cheap here, but working they sing.
They dance while they toil and they smile while they sweat.
Loads of hard-working people the bus-caravans bring.
To all parts of the city, to fight for their bread.
Slums made of brick sheds, pink blossoming trees,
Teach some essentials of apostle Paul's town.
They teach you to see, what every child sees:
Rich people are pink, and poor people are brown.

It is cold as it's hot, it is old like it's new.
It covers more stories than you'll ever know.
And whatever they tell you, it is probably true,
Depends on what you look at, and depends where you go.
If there's a truth of São Paulo, it is hidden below,
Below the favelas and the rich shopping-malls,
Below tenement-houses and dinner-room glow,
Air-conditioned hotel suites and gambling halls.

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