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