Soccer? Soccer isn't learned at school
In the country of soccer the sun rises for everybody
But it only shines for a few
And it shone through the window of the favela shack
Where this boy named Brazuca lived
Who didn't even have food in the pot
But did keepie-uppies on his shins
And drove the crowd crazy
He was young and they already said he was the new Pelé
Who did whatever he wanted with a ball at his foot
Who took free kicks way better than Zico and Maradona
And dribbled way better than Mané, that's right
Arousing interest in agents
Who has a Romário poster in the closet
But plays ball f*cking badly
And since he was little he's worked to earn a crumb
That feeds his mom and his little brother
Because there's no education for the people
You don't learn soccer at school
That's why Brazuca's good with the ball
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Enough of taking a beating
His shin is swollen and the ref doesn't see it
The jersey's soaked from so much running
This rule's wrong, let's redo it
Enough of taking a beating
The crowd's tired of losing
In the country of soccer almost everything goes wrong
But Brazuca's good with the ball, he's already turned pro
State champion, Brazilian champion
He went to play for the national team, got to know the whole world
And the whole world met Brazuca wearing the ten
Bossing the midfield like someone plays pool with his feet
With calm, with class, without missing a pass
Which also made his transfer price go up
And today he's the best-paid star in Europe
Captain of the national team, he's there at the Cup
While his brother, Zé Batalha, and all his crowd
The rabble in the favela he came from just works
Sweating through their shirts, thrown to the sideline
Trying to pull off a move prettier than the grass he carries in his lunchbox
Injured from so much beating
Don't complain or you'll get a red card
Zé Batalha under machine-gun sights, on his knees
Trying to explain himself with a revolver to his neck
I'm a worker, I'm Brazuca's brother!
He prays, holds his breath
And over at the Cup, a penalty for the national team
Ball on the spot, Brazuca will take it
Finger on the trigger, Zé Batalha's gonna die
Everything just as it had to be
There's another goal and Brazil's champion
There's another body stretched on the ground
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Enough of taking a beating
His shin is swollen and the ref doesn't see it
The jersey's soaked from so much running
This rule's wrong, let's redo it
Enough of taking a beating
The crowd's tired of losing
The country was happy after that goal
Everybody satisfied, everybody hugged
Lots of people even cried with the celebration
Proud to live in this champion country
And in the favela, the next day, nobody works
It's the day to bury what's left of Zé Batalha
But nobody's there to carry the body
Nor to say a prayer for the dead
Everybody's holding a flag
Waiting for the national team at the airport
Champion of hypocrisy, of violence, of humiliation
Of cowardice and misery, corruption
Of ignorance, of despair, malnutrition
Of abandonment, hunger and prostitution
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Brazuca's good with the ball, Brazuca owns the show
Zé Batalha just works, Zé Batalha just busts his ass
Enough of taking a beating
His shin is swollen and the ref doesn't see it
The jersey's soaked from so much running
This rule's wrong, let's redo it
Enough of taking a beating
The crowd's tired of losing
Enough of taking a beating
His shin is swollen and the ref doesn't see it
The jersey's soaked from so much running
This rule's wrong, let's redo it
Enough of taking a beating
The crowd's tired of losing
Enough of taking a beating!