Jodellavitanonhocapitouncazzo

I don't put on a show, I am the show like
My drunk grandfather on the day of my communion
So out of touch
That I have relatives not at all happy to bear my same surname
Leave me the presumption
Of feeling like manure
Sometimes hard, sometimes slurry
No desire for fame, I'm starving
No place at the table, I have a bowl like a dog
I bark for a couple of dishes that I beg for
I could act angry but I forget
Next to me is a real doctor, he tells me
'Don't you realize you're becoming schizophrenic?'
Quiet doctor
You cost me dearly
I'm worth nothing
And don't call me an artist, but a bullshitter
Is it clear? I am a bullshitter at the root
I am happy in the crap, I should cry but instead

I'm sick but on one side I don't give breath to victimhood
A Mirko, with all the rites
Licia kiss me
I aspire to the Oscar, but the one for aphorisms
I was supposed to take a shower but they gave me a frisbee
And I stink terribly
I drink for free
Escaped my fate like a stowaway in a boat
Eyes wide open like an owl
I build layer upon layer a future that sees me as a UFO
Sure that I get tired
I swear on every tuft
I should play the trumpet for how many times I sigh
If I dive into one of my ideas
I find myself in apnea in a sea of diarrhea
I find it funny
I am alive but not living because I breathe
I feel alive only when I draw the pen and write
When I was born I didn't understand
And now that I continue not to understand, all that's left for me is

I laugh but cry with pleasure
If I see the handsome, gym-toned and tanned guy just right
Me with mud in my locks from Woodstock, I stink
I accumulate sweat for hours that I spray
I love women who taste like cod
More than showgirls with sequins and ostrich feathers
I roll in a handful of joy
Even if I don't spend the summer in the fun of the beach
I am the reigning champion of the screw
But I have a scorching skullcap like lava rock
And in the competition of who cheats in music
I'm in the game with a two of spades up my sleeve
The only certainty is that I end up badly
Caparezza dies, everyone at the funeral
It's paradoxical
But I'm not coming, I don't care
Mom, how many records will they sell if I die
(Doctor, in the operating room)