Geihe 1977 Lyrics

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)