Andate Tutti Affanculo
Zen Circus
Go Fuck Yourselves All
To the most vile and calm cynicism
Like the one from singer-songwriters
Being assholes is a gift from few
Doing it on purpose is stuff for idiots
To those who went to live in London
In Berlin, in Paris, in Milan or Bologna
But fears have no fixed abode
Your turns are dreams of glory
To those who criticize, evaluate, praise
Sons of a too boring mother
Art is thought that comes out of the body
No more no less like dung
To women, men, and fags
I love you, I adore you and cover you with kisses
Awkward or harmonious naked bodies
Losers forever perfect for today
To you who like to be fooled
By the born winners, by the navigator
By the new car and its stench
By the final test by the dying man
