Bologna is an old lady with slightly soft hips
With her breasts on the Po plain and her ass on the hills
Arrogant and papal Bologna, Bologna the red and fetal one
Bologna the fat and l ' human already a little Romagna
And in the smell of Tuscany
Bologna for me provincial Paris minor
Open-air markets, bistros, the smell of the 'Rive Gauche'
With Sartre pontificating, Baudelaire sang amid the absinthe
And I, a vulgar Modenese, sweating out a love, even if it was ancillary
But what a comfortable Bohéme played between home and taverns
/>When philosophies bounce with every glass
Oh how poetic we were, but without shame and fear
And the old men, 'Imberiaghi' seemed like literature
Oh how artistic we all were, but without shame or shame
Cradled between the porticoes of mother Bologna's thighs
Bologna is an Emilian woman with strong cheekbones
Bologna capable of love, capable of death
Who knows what counts and who is worth it, who knows where the salt is peasant
Wellbeing, villas, jewels and salamis in the window
Who knows that the smell of poverty to swallow is a serious thing
And wants to feel safe with what she has on
Because it tastes like fear
You waste your smell of well-being but with the strange combination
Of the dead for dreams in front of your Saint Petronius
And your Bolognese , if they exist, are they there or are they now lost
Confused and tied to thousands of different worlds?
Oh how many words they sing to you, cradling people's clichés
Singing songs that are It's like singing about nothing. Bologna is a strange lady, a vulgar matron. to a burp
Remorse for what you gave me, which is almost a memory
And in the smell of the past

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