Scatole

One, two, three, four

My dad's always been a bricklayer
He hates whiners, the quiet ones, and optimists
He’s always got little time for love
And all the other stuff made up by communists
His diploma in surveying's been gathering dust for twenty years
In a dusty frame
And as a kid, I dreamed too of having
A frame that said I could do something, yeah, yeah
He wanted me to study architecture
Or become an engineer
But I wanted to be a musician
Spending my nights playing guitar
I remember one day he pulled me aside
He said: You don’t understand shit about life
Because only those who get their hands dirty
Get the privilege of having a clean conscience

Yeah, but I’m not like you
What I’ll become, what do you know?
Yeah, but I’m not like you, eh, eh
Make sure you never forget that

And a bit like a Jehovah's Witness
My future often rang the doorbell
And I didn’t even try to open
Just to become an engineer or an architect
I wanted to make people cry
And in front of bricks, no one gets moved
Because houses are just boxes
Where people hide when it rains, eh-ah
And then one day I went to London
It was to study music at university
And during the years, between exams
I often thought back to my dad's words

Yeah, but I’m not like you
What I’ll become, what do you know?
Yeah, but I’m not like you, eh, eh
Make sure you never forget that

And now I’ve got an attic too
And a piece of paper in a clean frame
And I’m not an architect or an engineer
My dad somehow accepted my life
I told him: I’m not like you
I’m different, I’m better
But songs are just boxes
Where people hide when it rains.