| Tazio ripped that road up
|
| So bad some round here say
|
| The blow he dealt was fatal
|
| When the ravens wheeled away
|
| My kin folk watched him do it
|
| From the hedgerow and the wall
|
| Red and gleaming silver
|
| Born with the siren’s call
|
| Finger on the trigger
|
| Pedal to the floor
|
| My window showed his movie
|
| In the years before the war
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| Five hundred thousand people
|
| Awe etched on every face
|
| On a summer’s morning
|
| To see Il Maestro race
|
| One day a year the world came
|
| Outside that Central Bar
|
| The church of Nuvolari
|
| The Italian and the car
|
| Finger on the trigger
|
| Pedal to the floor
|
| My window showed his movie
|
| In the years before the war
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| Twice he came and won
|
| Face caked in blood and oil
|
| Guts and nerve made Spartans
|
| Grace and honest toil
|
| Novulari’s Alfa
|
| Still roars inside my brain
|
| On days when this old track
|
| Is cold and wet with rain
|
| Finger on the trigger
|
| Pedal to the floor
|
| Finger on the trigger
|
| Pedal to the floor
|
| My window showed his movie
|
| In the years before the war
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the wind
|
| The son of the
|
| Wind |