L'Avvelenata

But if I had foreseen all this, reasons and pretexts, the current conclusions
Do you believe that for these few coins, this glory from assholes, I would have written songs;
Okay, I admit that I was wrong and accept the 'crucify' and so be it,
I ask for time, I am of my race, no matter how great it is, the first one who studied...

My father was right after all to say that the pension is really important,
My mother was not wrong to say that a graduate counts more than a singer:
Young and naive, I lost my mind, whether it was the books or my provincialism,
And a fuck in the ass and accusations of arrivism, doubts of mediocrity, that's what I have left...

You critics, you austere characters, severe militants, I apologize to you,
But I never said that revolutions are made with songs, that poetry can be made;
I sing when I can, as I can, when I feel like it without applause or boos:
Whether to sell or not is not among my risks, don't buy my records and spit on me...

But what do I care about taking on the hassle of being up here singing,
I enjoy myself much more getting drunk or masturbating or, at most, fucking...
If I'm in a bad mood then I write by rummaging through our miseries:
Usually I have to do more serious things, build on ruins or stay alive...

I am everything, I am nothing, I am an asshole, I am a drunkard, I am a poet, I am a buffoon, I am an anarchist, I am a fascist,
I am rich, I am penniless, I am radical, I am different and the same, black, Jewish, communist!
I am a faggot, I am because I sing so I can embark, I am false, I am true, I am a genius, I am an idiot,
I am alone here at four in the morning, anguish and a bit of wine, a desire to blaspheme!

But who makes me listen to anyone who has a pull?
Of course, the doctor says 'you're depressed', not even inside the toilet do I have a moment of my own.
And I who have always said that it was a game to know whether or not to use a certain meter:
Comrades, the game becomes heavy and gloomy, buy my backside, I sell it for little!

Colleague songwriters, chosen few, who sell themselves in the evening for a few million,
You who are capable, you do well to have full pockets and not just balls...
What can I tell you? Go and do, there will always be, you know,
a failed musician, a pious one, a theoretician, a Bertoncelli or a priest shooting nonsense!

But if I had foreseen all this, reasons and pretexts, maybe I would do the same,
I like making songs and drinking wine, I like making a mess, then I was born a fool
and so I carry on and I don't take off the clothes that I usually wear:
I still have many things to tell for those who want to listen and screw everything else!