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Certainly |
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Rocca in his stinkin' uniform |
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Settles matters with |
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Chianti, sitting in |
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La Scala Scrawling on a piece of the wall, stresses it word by word |
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He sells pills to dirty imbeciles. |
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He sets off, lookin' for viruses |
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So that his easy hand makes the strings sound |
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He says: "I believe, but not everyone" |
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He talked with an acid head, flyin' home. |
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Rocca counts stars or looks inside the soul |
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He's going to give a nipper for the old |
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Europe He congeals in silence, just like a rock, |
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When from the heights speaks to him miss |
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Bush. He prowls in the mountains, escapes bears |
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He watches |
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France from the top of a hill |
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He stinks and says: "I f... the bottle," |
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Too often he shoots at people and strikes at his skull! |
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Rocca repels the attacks of gloomy sad fools, |
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He... makes their souls so happy |
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He says, when it ends, for sure he'll come here |
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To make an exception: to shoot at you, at you! |
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He cannot understand, the |
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Junta hate him, |
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Rocca haunts policemen with a rubber banana, |
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He's organisin' the flock and bringin' crates of beer |
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His lady's reprimandin' him, no, no, no, |
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Rocca got too much!!! |
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He's like steel, hard like a motherf...er, |
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But he's gonna live not long, |
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Wake up sucker! |