  Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions, Let us express our envy of the man with a steady job and no worry about the future. You are very idle, my songs. I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about in the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops You do next to nothing at all. You do not even express our inner nobilities, You will come to a very bad end. And I? I have gone half cracked, I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me, Insolent little beasts, shameless, devoid of clothing! But you, newest song of the lot, You are not old enough to have done much mischief, I will get you a green coat out of China With dragons worked upon it, I will get you the scarlet silk trousers From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella, Lest they say we are lacking in taste, Or that there is no caste in this family. |
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