L'avvelenata [English translation]

Frankly, if I had expected all of this

Data reasons and pretexts

The present conclusions

Do you think that for these four pennies,

For this shitty glory

I would have written songs?

Okay, I admit I made a mistake

And I accept the Crucifixion and so be it.

I ask for time, I am of my kind

As great as it is, I am the first who studied

All things considered my father was right

Saying that the retirement is truly important

In fact my mother wasn't wrong

Saying that a graduate is more than a singer

Young and naive I lost my head

Blame the books or my provincialism

And a cock in the butt and accusations of careerism,

Suspicion of political apathy is all I've got left now

You critics, you auster characters

Severe militants I ask pardon to Your Graces.

But I have never said that with songs

You can make revolutions, you can make poetry

I sing when I can, how I can

Whenever I feel like it, regardless of applause or boos.

Selling or not selling isn't part of my risks,

Don't buy my disks and spit out on me.

According to you, what do I care

About taking the trouble of

Standing up there singing?

I enjoy much more getting drunk

Or masturbating

Or at a pinch, fucking.

If I am ill-humored then I write

By digging into our miseries

I usually do more serious things

Like building on rubbles or keeping myself alive.

Me all, me nothing, me jerk, me drunkard

Me poet, me jester, me anarchist, me fascist

Me rich, me no-money, me radical

Me different and me same, nigger, jewish, communist!

Me fag, me I-am-a-singer-I-know-how-to-pick-up-girls.

Me false, me true, me genius, me fool

Me alone here at four o'clock in the morning

The anguish and a bit of wine

A desire to swear.

According to you, who makes me

Stay and listen

To everybody who have sob stories?

Obvious, the doctor says "You're depressive"

Even in the crapper

I don't have one moment to myself.

And I who have always said it was just a joke

To know or not to know how to use a certain meter,

Comrades, the joke has become heavy and gloomy

Just buy my ass, I sell it on the cheap.

Songwriter colleagues, elected flock

Who sells yourself at night

For a few millions

You who are capable you're right to

Have the pockets full

And not just the balls.

What can I say to you? Go ahead and do it.

There will always be, you know it,

A failed musician, a pious, a theoretical philosopher

A Bertoncelli1 and a priest who says some shit.

But frankly if I had expected all of this

Data reasons and pretexts

Maybe I would make the same thing

I love to make songs and to drink wine

I love to party

And also I am born as a bloody idiot.

And so I move on, and I don't shuffle

Off the clothes I usually wear

I have so much things to tell

To anyone who will listen

...and fuck everything else!

1. Fun fact: Riccardo Bertoncelli is a music critic who had torn to shreds an earlier album by Guccini and accused him of having sold himself to the majors. Shortly afterwards, they met to discuss the review and the song and started to like each other. Guccini offered to remove the name from the song, but Bertoncelli declined. (Thanks Gyps Fulvus for the explanation!)

• Artist:Francesco Guccini
• Album:Via Paolo Fabbri 43