Under the Tricolor Flag (Barber’s Song) Verse 1 In the morning light so clear, Barbers sing as they draw near, Snipping locks of endless black, In steady rhythm, never slack. With scissors sharp, they work their trade, In smoky rooms their craft is laid, On soil pure, they plant their art, A revolution they impart. Chorus Barbers sing, oh, barbers sing, Crafting beauty in a ring. Not of marble, not of stone, In their hands, the hair has grown. Verse 2 Paths from south bring tales to ear, Whispers soft, they linger near. Gardens bloom in every style, Through humble hands and knowing smiles. Art is born from roots and land, Not of Greece, yet bold and grand. In each stroke, they paint a scene, A beauty raw, and yet serene. Chorus Barbers sing, oh, barbers sing, Crafting beauty in a ring. Not of marble, not of stone, In their hands, the hair has grown. Bridge A song of pride, a song of skill, Through gentle cuts and sheer will, Not for fame or for display, But for life in its own way. Chorus Barbers sing, oh, barbers sing, Crafting beauty in a ring. Not of marble, not of stone, In their hands, the hair has grown. Outro So under flags of red and green, Barbers work, a humble scene, And in their hands, the beauty grows, In every cut, a story flows.