Omatsuri Mambo

The man next to me was born in Kanda and loved the excitement of Edokko festivals

Twisted headbands, matching yukatas, rain or shine, From morning to night, the shrines are always lined up, wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi

Let's cheer up the economy, throw some salt on us, wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi, sore sore sore, it's a festival

Uncle uncle, something's wrong. Somewhere a fire bell is ringing. A fire is near. It's a thrift store. Whatever you say, wasshoi shoi. Whatever you hear, wasshoi shoi wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi wasshoi. Sore sore sore. It's a festival

The lady next to her was raised in Asakusa, a beautiful young woman, and loves the excitement of festivals. With her bare feet in a dyed yukata, she's out sightseeing in Okagura from morning until night, whether it's raining or snowing. Pee-hara, pee-hara, ten-tsuku, ten-tsuku, Okame and demons, Hannya and Hyottoko, pee-hara, pee-hara, ten-tsuku, ten-tsuku, sore, sore, it's a festival

Auntie, auntie, it's terrible. No one's home, it's empty. Burglars are secretly targeting you. Whatever you say, pee-ha-ra-hiya. Whatever you ask, it's ten-tsuku, pee-ha-ra-pee-ha-ra ten-tsuku, ten-tsuku. Sore, sore, it's a festival

The festival is over, the sun sets, and on this cold night the wind blows. The uncle whose house was burned and the aunt whose savings were stolen are sighing with sorrow. No matter how much I cry, they won't come back. No matter how much I cry, it's too late now