Lyrics

Italians — Oh Those Crazy Folks
Oh, those crazy Italians... what a crew,
Loud as a storm, with pasta to chew.
They think they're the best, full of spice—
But guess what, y’all? They don’t even like rice!
Their food looks fancy, rich and divine,
'Til you feel bloated from too much wine.
They serve five courses, you can't say no,
Now you're waddling home, moving slow.
You peek at the map—what do you see?
A boot-shaped country beside the sea.
Cities like Venice, and Rome with flair,
But it’s shaped like a foot—yo, what’s up with that there?
They’ve got this obsession, a food kind of fetish,
Always cooking, always embellished.
They twirl spaghetti like it’s ballet,
Then judge you hard if you eat the wrong way.
And let’s not forget—they’re a little bit mean,
They’ll roast you in public, then call it routine.
They fatten you up with a satisfied grin,
Then say, “Mangia!” while poking your chin.
They don’t ask how you feel, don’t care if you cry,
They just want lasagna stacked six layers high.
You’re sad? You're tired? You feel like a wreck?
“Here, eat some prosciutto and give us a check.”
So these Italians—yeah, they’re a trip,
With pasta and pride and permanent lip.
Don't trust them much, they’ll fill your plate,
Then laugh as you struggle with gaining some weight.
But we Americans? Oh, we're the best—
We love and we share and we pass every test.
We smile, we hug, we welcome the pack...
Unless you mess with our snacks—then we bite back.