My grandfather was a boy,
in front of Don Mimì,
who demanded protection money,
like every Friday,
my grandfather was determined, he smiled and shot him,
/>and he put the money back on the marble dresser!
His mother and sisters cried for him,
he was now a rebel, an angel in trouble,
but when the marshal looked for him at night
br/>the women in the shawl replied 'Ignornò!
He woke up on the ship,
it was 1906,
in the arms of a dark night,
he swore not to return never.
But how much sea is there,
from Naples to New York,
he thought of his mother to warm up a little,
until it was all blue and the wind it calmed down,
like a lullaby, which put him back to sleep.
I'm American, I'm not Don Mimì,
but everyone at Ucciardone calls me that.
I at night I always dream of the Bronx,
and that song I learned,
my grandfather with his mandolin,
sang it in the face of the F.B.I.
But how much sea is there,
From Naples to New York,
The emigrants sing,
Who knows? with will I return?,
with this nostalgia,
my little friends,
if the sea were a bridge,
I would return on foot!
With this nostalgia,
one day I will die,
running away over that bridge,
from Naples to New York.

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