On your first day
walking these hallowed halls,
it is raining in Maranello.

Your cross is waiting for you.
Golden adornments climbing high,
waiting for the silver arrow.
The jewels embedded within,
decades of legacy, ancient, glimmering things,
are Rosso Corsa red.

Bloody, bloody jewels, a bloody cross.
(Red, red, red.)
A bloody handprint on the steering wheel.
Silver nails, freshly hammered.
Your teammate's blood has turned dark.
Hanging on his cross, he smiles at you anyway,
and his teeth are red too.

They will bleed you until they can bleed you no longer.
And then, you will be gently taken down off that golden cross
and laid to rest, with all the others.
One more silver arrow
in a graveyard decorated
with the golden sun
and Rosso Corsa.