Leo warrior of knowledge

[Intro – spoken, mocking] “Keeper of knowledge”? No no… Léo keeps nothing altogether. They chase knowledge with their fists. [Verse 1] Léo doesn't like yellowed parchment, Y says it smells musty and boring. The monks can copy all night, but he prefers to learn when it bleeds and screams. He left the scriptorium at a young age, “Too much ink, not enough punches, it hurts” He says that the street is his grimoire, That each scar tells a story. Always a weed smoking in the corner of his mouth, Or a rolled up leaf that is relighted there, which smells fishy The smoke makes his eyes half-closed, He looks wise... but it's just Léo. [Pre-Chorus] If you say white, you say black, Just for the pleasure of seeing you sit down. Always ready to complain about nothing, Even when deep down… he really loves you. [Chorus] Leo, warrior of knowledge, But knowledge flees when he sees you in the evening. You have no books, you have no Latin, But you have a strong fist and a human heart. You may not be literate, but you're not on your knees. When things get bad in the neighborhood, we want you with us. [Verse 2] He doesn't know the ancient runes, But he knows debts and hatred. He knows how to read fear in a look, Even before the blade comes out of the black sheath. He half listens to you when you talk about scholars, Pis replies: “Yes… but ultimately, what is the point of host?” And then it starts a debate in the corner of the tavern, Y persists as if his life depends on it. But when night falls on Korstull, And the streets are not full, Y walks ahead, without flinching, Even if he doesn't know how to write his full name. [Bridge – softer] You don’t read books… But you read men. He doesn't know the saints... But he understands the faults. And sometimes I say to myself, Maybe that's his true host knowledge. [Verse 3] Still smoking a strange weed, Y says it helps him see the things that bother him. Maybe shadows are fleeing within, Maybe it carries more weight than it pretends. They whine, they grumble, they grumble a little, But if you touch theirs, they get serious. No need for a pen to be loyal, No need for school to be fatal. Warrior of knowledge of worn cobblestones, Graduate of markets and improvised fights. Not the most learned, not the finest, But when you're in trouble... it's him who holds you. [Final Chorus] Léo, my great backstreet philosopher, You may not have an academic head, but you are faithful. You don't read sacred scrolls... But you read life like no one else can.