Chinga Ringa

She was a little senorita
way down from Ensenada
Came here with a Visa
missing nothing, I mean nada!

I was lonely little hombre
Didn’t know she was about
to play me like Miss Charro
Coochee coochee
There’s no doubt.

Hot Tamale, extra sauce
She cast her spell upon me
Like voodoo, that was boss
She danced la cucaracha
And that’s when I got lost.

Chinga Ringa, Chinga Ringa
is what she used to say
Never quite explained it
But I swear until this day
I remember Chinga Ringa
and the girl who talked this way.

She said her name was Blanca
I understood that to be White
She may have been some sunshine
but her heart was black as night.

She was charming
She was pretty
Plastic magic on her face
She tripped the light fantastic
Then she left without a trace.

Chinga Ringa, Chinga Ringa
I tried to look it up
There wasn’t a translation
Just a question in my mind
Still, the phrase still haunts my memory
and to me, it’s so sublime.

She said it when excited
She would just erupt
Chinga Ringa, Chinga Ringa
A phrase that I just loved
To this day, I have no idea,
surely, what she might have meant
doesn’t matter anyhow, as she came
as so she went.

The moral of this story
If you should so inquire
Take a little trip
if you should so inspire
down to Mexico
Ensenada, California
Listen for the sound of the one you so desire
singing Chinga Ringa, Chinga Ringa
A certain qualifier
to let you know
and let you play
with something called white fire.

-J