Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, a king saw fit
to send this proclamation through the land:
'I am I, you vassals aren't worth shit —
that's how it is, so kiss my royal hand!
I'll have you as I want you, straight or bent,
or sell you off in lots, so much a pair,
and if I have you hanged, it's only fair —
you never owned your lives, you only rent.
Shut up and bow — there isn't any hope
I'd listen to some turkey-brain like you
unless he's Emperor, or King, or Pope.'
And then he had his hangman take a poll
to see how folks reacted, on the whole.
And all the people said, It's true, It's true.
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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What's the Pope Do?
What's the pope do? Drinks, and takes a nap;
looks out the window, has a bite to eat,
fiddles with the housemaid's garter strap,
and makes the town a cushion for his feet.
No kids for him; a family man he's not —
why should he bother with his own brass band
when, come what may, he'll be the first on hand
to get whatever soup is in the pot?
He thinks he owns the earth — it's mine, all mine —
the air and water, bread and wine, the sun —
as if no dog but he could have a bone.
He'd almost almost like to be alone
in all the world, like God — it might be fun —
before he made the angels and mankind.
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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From Hand to Hand
The Pope, God's locum, Our Lord, is someone I'd
Liken to an eternal Father, like Our Eternal Father.
That is, he doesn't die, or, sure he dies, but rather,
To be precise, he only really dies on the outside.
Because when his body leaves off being a governor,
His soul, still stuck in its ancient honour,
Doesn't go to paradise or hell - it ain't a goner -
But passes straight into the body of his successor.
In this way, he can undergo slight changes in his brain,
His stomach, ears, nose, skin, mouth or eyes;
But the Pope, inasmuch as he's a Pope, stays the same.
An that's the reason why every body fated to receive
That kind of dignity, falls down from the sky
Soulless, with nothing else but the power to breathe.
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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Greed
When I watch folks of this world and see how widespread
It is for those, that pile up treasure and put on fat, to chafe
At the bit and grasp for more, the way they hunger for a safe
As broad as the ocean, and so deep, that it'd never touch the seabed,
I say to myself: ah, you herd of blind fools, bank away, bank,
Ruining your days with anxieties, lose night after night of sleep,
Do shady deals and diddle: then what? Old Granpa Time'll creep
In with his scythe, and slice away at your bundle of plans, hank after hank.
Death's hidden away, and hunkers inside the clock-tower;
And no one can say: Tomorrow, once more I'll
Still hear midday ring out like today, at this very same hour.
What's the poor pilgrim do when he takes on a rough and tough
Journey, knowing he'll travel but for a little while?
He packs a crust or two of bread, and that's enough.
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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LOTTE A CASA (Lot At Home)
Cor zu' bravo sbordone a manimanca,
Du' pellegrini a or de vemmaria
Cercaveno indov'era l'osteria,
Perc'uno aveva male in d'una cianca.
Ce s'incontra er zor Lotte, e je spalanca
Er portone dicenno: "A casa mia"
E loro je risposeno: "Per dia
Dimani sarai fio de l'oca bianca".
Quelli ereno du' angeli, fratello,
Che ar vedelli passà li Ghimorrini
Se sentinno addrizzà tutti l'ucello.
E arrivonno a strillà, fiji de mulo:
"Lotte, mannece giù li pellegrini,
Che ce serveno a noi pe daje in culo".
English
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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ER CAFFETTIERE FISOLOFO (The Philosophizing Barman)
L'ommini de sto monno sò l'istesso
Che vaghi de caffè ner macinino:
C'uno prima, uno doppo, e un'antro appresso,
Tutti quanti però vanno a un distino.
Spesso muteno sito, e caccia spesso
Er vago grosso er vago piccinino,
E ss'incarzeno tutti in zu l'ingresso
Der ferro che li sfraggne in porverino.
E l'ommini accusì viveno ar monno
Misticati pe mano de la sorte
Che sse li gira tutti in tonno in tonno;
E movennose oggnuno, o ppiano, o fforte,
Senza capillo mai caleno a fonno
Pe cascà ne la gola de la morte.
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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LI GALOPPINI (The Scroungers)
Jeri, a la Pulinara, un colleggiale
Doppo fatta una predica in todesco,
Setacciò tutt'er popolo in du' sale,
E a la ppiù mejo vorze dà er rifresco.
In quella fece entracce er Cardinale
Co l'amichi der Micco e ppadron Fiesco;
E nell'antra la gente duzzinale
Che viaggia cor caval de san Francesco.
Pe sta sala che qui de li spedati
Comincionno a ppassà li cammorieri
Pieni de sottocoppe de gelati.
Ma che! a la sala delli cavajeri
Un cazzo ciarrivò: ché st'affamati
Se sparinno inzinenta li bicchieri.
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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LA BOCCA DE-LA-VERITA' (The mouth Of truth)
In d'una chiesa sopra a 'na piazzetta
Un po' ppiù ssù de Piazza Montanara
Pe la strada che pporta a la Salara,
C'è in nell'entrà una cosa benedetta.
Pe ttutta Roma quant'è larga e stretta
Nun poterai trovà cosa ppiù rara.
È una faccia de pietra che tt'impara
Chi ha detta la bucìa, chi nu l'ha detta.
S'io mo a sta faccia, c'ha la bocca uperta,
Je ce metto una mano, e nu la striggne
La verità da me ttiella pe certa.
Ma ssi fficca la mano uno in bucìa,
Èssi sicuro che a tirà né a spiggne
Quella mano che lì nun viè ppiù via.
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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L'ADUCAZZIONE (Education)
Fijo, nun ribbartà mai tata tua:
Abbada a tte, nun te fà mette sotto.
Si quarchiduno te viè a dà un cazzotto,
Lì callo callo tu dajene dua.
Si ppoi quarcantro porcaccio da ua
Te ce facessi un po' de predicotto
Dije: "De ste raggione io me ne fotto:
Iggnuno penzi a li fattacci sua".
Quanno giuchi un bucale a mora, o a boccia,
Bevi fijo; e a sta gente buggiarona
Nun gnene fà restà manco una goccia.
D'esse cristiano è ppuro cosa bona:
Pe questo hai da portà ssempre in zaccoccia
Er cortello arrotato e la corona.
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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ER RIFUGGIO (The Refuge)
A le curte: te vòi sbrigà d'Aggnesa
Senza er risico tuo? Be', tu pprocura
D'ammazzalla vicino a quarche chiesa:
Poi scappa drento, e nun avé ppavura.
In zarvo che tu ssei dopo l'impresa,
Freghete del mandato de cattura;
Ché a chi tte facci l'ombra de l'offesa
Una bona scomunnica è ssicura.
Lassa fà: staccheranno la licenza:
Ma ppe la grolia der timor de Dio,
C'è sempre quarche pprete che ce penza.
Tu nun ze' un borzarolo né un giudìo,
Ma un cristiano c'ha perzo la pacenza:
Dunque, tu mena, curri in chiesa, e addio.
English
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poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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