They are around us, among us
In many cases we are the ones making the criticisms
Without ever sparing them except for calculation
The end is only the audience, the means is every possible
The stakes are high, the imperative is to win
And don't let anyone else drive
In the logic of the comment the only rule is to be clever
No scruples or respect towards the pilots
Because they will always be the first Ferrari if the others are unattainable
They are many, arrogant towards the weak, they praise the powerful
They are replicants, they are all identical, look at them
They are behind pens and microphones, you can't distinguish them
Like snakes they crawl, and if they lose their heads they rebuild it
They do what they want everyone to know what they do
They write, they speak and they are what they say
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
And like racing cars they live in full-optional paddocks
With scoops over 120 decibels and details like it was Disneyland
I live with the fear of appearing off track
What they say they flaunt, everything else they envy
Then they buy it, in constant escalation with the neighbor they criticize
They start from the first lap and go all the way to the end
They have more articles on the web than circuits on the calendar
They are the ones who watch the races on Sunday
Which in the evening dart among the comments and headlines
As fast as the cars they write about
As direct as the missiles they resemble
Extremely tense, they become inflamed
They get drunk and then get stuck on an article – boom!
Phrases as sharp as razor blades
Which become hotter by one level of tension
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
Every man for himself, God for himself
Hands shaking in the press offices on Sundays
Hypocritical hands, hands that make articles that cannot be told
Otherwise the other hands, who knows what they think, will be scandalized
Hands who then sign reviews for the scandal
Hands smooth as motor oil, hands that brandish microphones
Which fill the news, which arise behind the backs of the pilots
Those who can no longer run at night
Those who hunt for scoops while the pilots rest
What do the bosses do, who buy Haas
Who are so sophisticated as to call the technicians, plastic nightmares
Who would like to set fire to every scandal
But the only one they turn on is the one that gives them the title every day
When I hide on the dark face of their black moon
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better
They are around me, but they don't talk to me
They're like me, but they feel better