| Self destruction sequence activated
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| Begin countdown
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| 10, 9, the years you are not
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| These are the two grades they never gave you
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| 8, 7, your few friends those who remain like you 6
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| 5, 4, the hours you sleep now
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| How come you find it hard to fall asleep lately
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| When you wake up in the morning you more or less recognize yourself
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| Disappear slowly, floor 3, 2, 1, zero
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| Zero impact generation
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| Like the traces left on our zero path
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| Like the times we made ourselves out of era
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| Or we really went hungry
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| Zero, like the desire to work
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| Zero like the days of military service, I was not there
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| When demonstrating could end badly
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| I used to do it to make a mistake
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| After the end of the barrels of the sixty-eight mottos
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| Many children were born who grew up in small bedrooms
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| And in Scavolini kitchens, those of Cuccarini
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| And if now Andreotti sells cell phones with Marini
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| For us it is normal
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| Like the minister who telephones the banker
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| Zero trust, zero desire to vote
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| And every time you try to explain
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| They take you for a fool
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| To them you are an alien
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| But that's what makes you a little happy
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| They exchange medals
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| And they win battles
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| Your generation zero
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| Coded, far too complicated
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| It's not the Tim tribe, nobody here talks to you for free
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| We are a few four cats still taken by video games
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| And from Japanese cartoons
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| We just missed Lapo's feasts
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| We are the children of the first who divorced
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| Billionaires and tramps on the same premises
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| In line for the toilet made like dogs on sofas
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| In front of the televisions, sadistic spectators
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| We want the tsunami on the island of the famous
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| We almost die but then we recover
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| It's me, you, Kate Moss and Calissano
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| They take you for a fool
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| To them you are an alien
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| But that's what makes you a little happy
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| They exchange medals
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| And they win battles
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| Your generation zero
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| Don't worry we will never end up on the stamps
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| Right no because they are crazy
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| On the left they are soft
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| If you want us you can find us stopped at the controls
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| Without experience, without the struggles of the seventies
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| And if the boss is a gang of zanza
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| For us they are just ordinary facts
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| Like the tits of the valleys on the calendars
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| Which leave us indifferent
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| Because we love one at a time and we are always in love
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| They take you for a fool
|
| To them you are an alien
|
| But that's what makes you a little happy
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| They exchange medals
|
| And they win battles
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| Your generation zero |