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• Artiste: Bleubird
• Titre: Geihe 1977
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In Bonfigliara In the village of my father We hunt Chingale We roast Castanas In the providence of Imperia The region of Liguria Bonfigliara, village of my father 1700 kilometers away from the town of Ranzo The winding road is so narrow You have to honk around corners for cars cause you can't see them Halfway up the mausoleum where my grandparents rest But the best part is the steady climb I can already smell the wine, the basil, the coffee, the bread My head gets warm, my heart slows down a pace The village greets us, the loving looks on my family's face In Bonfigliara In the village of my father We hunt Chingale We roast Castanas If it meant you never saw my face again, my friend I would end this run right now and cop a 9 to 5 so my father wouldn't have to sell that house But I chase this guilty pleasure, letting treasure disappear, my biggest fear, been in my family over two hundred years And it was in this house that the Nazi's shot my fathers uncle cause he wouldn't buckle on hidden tobacco that he had stashed behind a secret cabinet And it's in this village, there's only about 9 house, that's it Little church in the middle, only opens once a year to honor the saint The paint is all peeling Charming decaying sugarcane ceilings They had to install a running toilet for our first visit in the 80's Cesare's back with his American wife and babies! He left that farm at seventeen for Switzerland and young lovers The oldest of three brothers Hustled his way to France, then danced to the Bahamas, found Miami Peeled a pear for Sharon, then had Dre and me Papagallo hard pill to swallow Chances are low with a family in tow Mom's gotta work, too proud to borrow Because of where we come from, no slums A mayor of 25 years, my grandfathers name was Giuseppe He farmed the land for all his needs, and he had plenty Grew his own tobacco, rolled his own cigarettes, when they had dinner guests he would take his cart to the market to trade his harvest with local artists and butchers A true pusher, with an ox in the cellar Making and bottling Bruna wine Brewed me a stash in 77, drank one last year but I still got eleven In the cellar with the bats where the walls are packed with hay and earth there's a little shelf where my name is written, right next to my date of birth in pencil, on the bottles that Giuseppe left for me My family tree, my bloodline That's what we said andre, said Andre The house must stay The house must stay (In Bonfigliara In the village of my father We hunt Chingale We roast Castanas)