Valeriorivoli

You can no longer expect to have everyone around you
You can no longer treat your lovers like they are cream puffs
You only want the things you don't have
You talk about things you don't know
You try to play but you can't
You only think about your own business
Who are you, countess?
You are no longer the same
You want me to stay in your bed only to bounce up and down
Don't complain if tomorrow we don't seek you out anymore
But I would just like to have you here
You are captivating even like this
You defend yourself with DDT
You make those "yes" of yours weigh too much
Who are you, countess?
You are no longer the same
You think that everything concrete should relate to you
You play the mysterious one to hide a secret that doesn't exist
But how is it going in your castle?
You live your old nobility
You don’t even know the truth
You sell reality at a high price
In your castle, how is it going?
You live your old nobility
You don’t even know the truth
You sell reality at a high price

p.s. when I pass through Corso Francia I feel unwell

My dear Nannino, you could have stopped at "ecce bombo" or, at the very least, "sogni d'oro."

but how cute Cinzia!!! good reviewer

But why don't you let it age a few more years? In the meantime, listen to a 45 of Equipe 84.

I'm not going random. What bothers me the most is that the new generations - y, z millennials, are taking in this nonsense from the drugged-up baby boomers generation - who, being high on drugs, peace, and love, had their reasons for idolizing this idiot forever on tour.. But these others, no way, man. It's their uncles who’ve tricked them, or the web. Who knows, it's a mystery.

He's always been an asshole who talks about himself. Bob Dylan has never done anything worth a damn in his life, and there are even those who study his mishmash of hundreds produced by a twisted mind. Even the Nobel Prize to this jerk with a prairie dog voice. P.S. The early songs were actually nice. The rest is just an odious snake.

1978 first color TV, the World Cup, and Atlas Ufo Robot. Oh MY GOLDEN YEARS...

Gentlemen Tamburini, I'm not in the mood for jokes, throw the prophet into the sea, times are about to change. ENOUGH with all these analysts, enigmists, sociologists, paleographers of the cursed Bobbone in stars and stripes. You can't understand a damn thing Bob Dylan says from start to finish; he talks to himself with incomprehensible mutterings, a wickedly loquacious and contradictory, double, unpleasant, hermetic salesman of himself in the mirror, and everyone is there singing his praises. The few clear, non-narcissistic songs are the ones everyone remembers. The rest is just so boring... the usual blues, the rasping voice...

But look at how many little monkeys are scrambling on the branches of the Christmas tree for yet another pinfloyd fart! Well done. I still remember the episode of that fake communist Waters playing golf with the rich during the Animals tour. And that foolish Gilmour, who with your money pays alimony to his d12 wives.
I’ll send you a vintage punk as a gift to kick you in your cursed teeth, you damn old hippies.
But when will you go extinct?