| It came down from Corso Tricolore
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| And at home she already dreamed of returning
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| She found herself in a spinning sense
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| In the middle of a roundabout he tried to pass
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| The strips on the ground proved him right
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| But with that frantic, exasperated traffic
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| Among the buses, taxis, vans
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| You could not even see the pavement anymore
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| A pedestrian alone, you know, doesn't count for anything
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| Nobody lets it pass, nor does he want to
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| He cried, he cried but always to no avail
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| Not one who stopped to favor it
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| The night came black, cold and sad
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| He put the jacket on the floor for a pillow
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| He slept and dreamed that the traffic was over
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| But dawn found him stuck in the sun
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| A pedestrian alone, you know, doesn't count for anything
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| Nobody lets it pass or wants to
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| He cried, screamed but always to no avail
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| Not one who braked to favor him
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| And many nights and days after that
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| He lived by eating grass on the pavement
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| He drank the rain collected in his hat
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| He was upset, yes and a little aged
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| He died thus on the thirteenth of August
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| He left his wife and children with nothing
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| Two days later he came mid-August
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| And the traffic vanished but to no avail |