They called her Bocca di Rosa
she placed love, she placed love
they called her Bocca di Rosa
she placed love above everything.
As soon as she got off at the station
in the little village of Sant’Ilario
everybody realized at a one glance
that she wasn't a missionary.
There are those who make love out of boredom,
those who choose it as a profession.
Bocca di Rosa didn't do either,
she made it for passion.
But passion will often lead you
to satisfy your own desires
without checking if your infatuation
has a free heart or is already married.
And so it was that from one day to another
Bocca di Rosa was already carrying
The fatal fury of all the bitches
whose bone she had snatched.
But the old wives of a little town
don't certainly shine by their resourcefulness
their countermeasures, up to that point,
were limited to badmouthing.
It is known that people give good advice
feeling like Jesus at the temple,
it is know that people give good advice
If the cannot give any more bad example.
Thus an old lady, a spinster,
never had children and had no more passion,
with joy she hastily stuck her nose
giving everyone the right advice.
So addressing the cuckqueans
she called them out, cunningly speaking
"Theft of love will be punished,
Such is the order of things"
The women went to the sheriff,
and told him without paraphrasing
"That slut has too many costumers,
Even more than the grocery store".
Four policemen arrived
with their plumes, with their feathers
and then four guards arrived
with their feathers and with their weapons.
Quite very often cops and policemen
are fairly useless at their own duty,
But not when they're wearing their full dress uniforms
and they escorted her to take the first train.
Everybody was at the station,
from the sheriff to the sacristan
everybody was at the station
with red eyes and hat in hand.
To send off the one that for a while,
without pretension, without pretension,
to send off the one that for a while,
had brought the love to their village.
There was a yellow sign
with black writing
it said "Farewell Bocca di Rosa
my spring leaves with you".
But news that are quite original
have no need for a newspaper
Like an arrow flying out of a bow
It quickly flies from one mouth to another.
And at the following station
there were more people than when she left
one blowing a kiss, one throwing a flower
One booking for couple of hours.
Even the priest who doesn't despise,
between a beggar and the last rites
the evanescent goodness of beauty,
wants her by his side at the procession.
And with the Virgin on the first row
and Bocca di Rosa not very far
He takes strolling around the village
the love that's sacred and the love that's profane