The Poisoned - Francesco Guccini

When Guccini had had enough of critics telling him he wasn't "engaged", "political" enough, he
really laid it down

But if had foreseen all of that, data
causes and pretexts, the actual conclusions
do you believe I'd have written songs for
a few bucks, for some idiot's glory;
alright, I admit I was wrong, and accept
your "crucify him", amen,
give me time: of my tribe, large as it is,
I was the first one to get an education.

My dad in the end was right to say
that a pension is really important.
My mom wasn't wrong in saying
that someone with a degree's worth more than a singer:
young and naive I lost my mind,
be it the books or my rural ways,
and all am left with is a pain in the ass,
being called an upstart, an indifferent.

To you critics, austere characters, serious militants,
I profusely apologize, but I never said
that songs make revolutions, or poetry;
I sing when I can, how I can, when I feel like
with no cheers nor boos
whether it sells or not I don't count as a risk,
don't buy my songs and spit on me.

"According to you", but what do I care, to
go through the pain of singing on a stage:
I enjoy drinking way more, or masturbating,
or even fucking... When I am angry, then
I write raking through our misery:
usually I have more important stuff to do,
building on ruins, or keeping myself alive.

I everything, nothing, idiot, drunkard,
I poet, buffoon, anarchist, fascist,
I rich, broken, radical, different, and
I egalitarian, negro, jew, communist!
I queer, I can take it because I sing,
I false, true, genius, cretin,
I lonely here at 4 am, depression,
and some wine, a wish for blasphemy.

"According to you", but why do I have
to listen to whoever feels like babbling?
For sure, my doctor says "You are depressed",
not even in the toilet I have a moment for myself.
And I used to say it was all a game,
to know how to use a certain verse or not:
comrades, the game's becoming sad and heavy,
buy my ass, I am selling it cheap!

Fellow folksingers, o elected crowd that
sells itself every night for a few million bucks,
those of you who can, good for you to fill your pockets,
and not just your nutsacks...
What can I tell you? Go forth and create,
yet there will forever be, as you know, a failed musician,
a pious one, a theoretician, a Bertoncelli and a priest,
babbling like a fuck!

But if I had foreseen all of that, data
causes and pretext, perhaps I'd do the same,
I enjoy writing songs and drink wine, I enjoy
making bedlam, then again, I was born naive,
and so I go on and throw away the clothes I wear:
I have a lot more stories to tell, to those who'll listen,
and fuck everything else!