Well yeah, I'm from the village
I don't have a refined accent like the Genoese
Whenever I move I'm always with my sheep
I've even got a steam train
They bring me salami at the end of every month
You spot me by the Invicta backpack
But if you talk style to me I say please shut up
While you get back at five from your table at Divinae
I'm grabbing the tractor and going to harvest olives
At eighteen the gold chain
I always wear it, like it's my job
I flaunt it at the beach and then I feel hot
You see it and scream in mono
You almost ignore the pandoro-style haircut
What'll become of this Murgia that
I live with the sheep like it was a VIP room
By now I don't even know what a bidet looks like
In the car I blast Marco Marfè's new tape
Every weekend I look for the club entrance
But with my sausage clan
I always end up kicked out
Yet every two months I spot the distracted gorilla
And that's when I slip in quick as a cat
I start drinking full throttle, forget my liver
I go nuts, I grab everything without distinction
My drunk irony's never appreciated
And the tiger shirt doesn't help me fit in
Me and my buddy in the purple jacket
We stop anything that might look like
We know the blockers well, we ain't sharks
But with another drink every hole will look the same