La domenica delle salme
THE SUNDAY OF THE CORPSES
He tried to escape by tram
Around six in the morning
From the barley drink
Where Milan floats
It wasn't hard to follow him
The poet from Baggina
His ignited soul
Was radiating light like a light bulb
They set his bed on fire
On the road to Trento
He managed to save himself from his beard
A battle robin
The Poles didn’t die right away
And kneeling at the last traffic lights
They were retouching the makeup on the regime’s whores
Launched towards the sea
The soap traffickers
Turned their bellies eastward
Those who converted in ninety
Were excused in ninety-one
The monkey of the Fourth Reich
Danced the polka on the wall
And as it climbed
We all saw its ass
The pyramid of Cheops
Wanted to be rebuilt on that festive day
Stone by stone
Slave by slave
Communist by communist
The Sunday of the corpses
There were no gunshots
The laughing gas
Patrolled the streets
The Sunday of the corpses
Took away all thoughts
And the queens of tua culpa
Crowded the hairdressers
In the sunny homeland jail
The second jailer
Told "Mustache of Sego" that he was the first
It can be done tomorrow at dawn
And messengers were sent
Infantry, horses, dogs, and a donkey
To announce the amputation of the leg
Of Renato Curcio
The carbonaro
The minister of storms
In a throng of trombones
Wished for democracy
With the tablecloth on his hands and his hands on his balls
I want to live in a city
Where at cocktail hour
There are no bloodshed
Or detergent spills
Late in the evening, my illustrious cousin De Andrade
And I were the last free citizens
Of this famous civil city
Because we had a cannon in the yard
A cannon in the yard
The Sunday of the corpses
No one was hurt
Everyone followed the coffin
Of the dead ideal
The Sunday of the corpses
One could hear singing
How beautiful youth is
We don’t want to grow old anymore
The last wayfarers
Withdrew to the catacombs
Turned on the television and watched us sing
For about half an hour
Then they told us to fuck off
You who sang on stilts and on your knees
With pianos slung over your shoulders dressed as Pinocchio
You who sang for the Lombards and for the centralists
For the Amazon and for the pecunia
In the palastilists
And from the Marist fathers
You had powerful voices
Tongues trained to beat the drum
You had powerful voices
Fit for a vaffanculo
The Sunday of the corpses
The nostalgia attendants
Accompanied among the flutes
The corpse of Utopia
The Sunday of the corpses
It was a Sunday like many others
The next day there were signs
Of a terrifying peace
While the heart of Italy
From Palermo to Aosta
Swelled in a choir
Of vibrating protest

A piece I would say appropriate for today's day.