My cousin Todrara
who knows so many people
says: "The dead singers
aren't really dead.
They're hiding in Rome enjoying the good life.
They've been picked up en bloc by some agency
to sell more records
and do a bit of promotion."
In Tuscolano there's the Chitara
known as the Vuducialdaro,
while in Testaccio you’ll find Mafrodito
who never stops singing:
"We are the champions."
In Murotorto you can see Rastamanno
who gives us the rastaman vibrations:
he tells a girl not to cry because
we smoke a little cigarette with friend Selassié.
We are the immortals, we are the immortals,
the high dead:
but it’s not true, but it’s not true,
we've all risen.
We are the zombies of the singing world
guided by the moog of the Lighthouse Guardian:
we are the immortals.
In Centocelle reigns Pelvicaro,
who babbles and eats all the fruits.
He has a daughter who attracts the Trilleraro
whose name is Micheletto
but the little black boy doesn’t want to sing.
But when evening comes, the immortals
descend from the seven hills into the plain,
with some terrifying young boys,
then with the magnaccia they sing the refrain.
We are the immortals, we are the immortals,
the high dead:
but what do we care, but what do we care,
we're always stronger.
We like to speed along the ring road,
but deep in the night the Canaro invites us
to have some spaghetti.
In Primaporta there’s Lucertolaro
who with his mother wants to do a jump;
with Quattrocchi they imagine,
with Tromba and Vedraro,
the Hangman and the Fucilense go off
to Freggene by the Pool to make the stones roll.
We are the immortals, we are the immortals,
funeral singers.
When you pass, when you pass
you go under two meters;
you can ask to come back,
but the request goes around the world
and you remain a corpse:
corpse, corpse, corpse, corpse,
dead, corpse, corpse, dead, retrofit.
