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!)