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Fottiamci, anima mia, fottiamci presto

He: Let’s fottere, my love, let’s fottere,

Since all of us were born only to fottere.

You adore the cazzo and I the potta.

The world would be nothing without this act.

If it were proper to fottere after death,

I’d say let’s fottere ourselves to death,

Then we could fottere Adam and Eve,

Who died such a dishonourable death.

She: Truly, if those truants hadn’t eaten

that treacherous apple in the garden,

Lovers would long ago have quenched their lust.

But let’s stop chatting. Stick your cazzo in

So that it reaches my heart, and crush the soul

That lives or dies issuing from he cazzo.

He: Don’t leave out my balls –

Take them inside the potta,

those witnesses of every extreme pleasure.

Prefatory Garland

Reader, I bring you here a perfumed song,

And yet, you’ll find, no sentimental ditties;

The songs I sing are of the little pretties,

And not for saints — if you think that, you’re wrong!

Sunrises are all right — where they belong!

I sing the ones that rise in hardened cities.

Of facades front and rear and — a thousand pities!

If we mix metaphors where truth’s too strong.

Our city, you’ll perceive, is all aflame;

But, strange to say, the elevations stand:

What’s architecture in a case like this?

And, street or alley, what is in a name?

Look at this pillar rising with a grand

And overawing gesture: let us kiss!

Of Sylvan Tourneys

At sylvan tourneys let us joust, dear one,

As Adam did, and Eve, in Eden’s shade;

And if I break a lance, don’t be afraid:

That is the sequel to our rustic fun.

Speaking of Adam, it is sad that he has run

His last brave course and no more bends a blade;

Sad, too, that in that dull and heavenly glade

One cannot do as one on earth has done!

I know, they blame the apple: that’s not true;

Look at the birds and beasts, and you will see

That we on earth do merely what we must.

But this is not a time for jest; do you

Not feel the wave that’s swelling up in me?

Then, come! Take arms! against a sea of — Lust!

In Questa Chiara Sacrosanta Notte

On that clear, calm and more than holy night,

Followed by Friday, Venus’ own day,

On which all faithful, pious creatures pray,

With broken tears, Nature, for boon or blight,

Brought spirit and my members to the light,

From the dark maternal grotto where they lay;

And the fates that watched were good to me, I’ll say,

Since I’ve willed to endure them, bad or bright.

As Jesus suffered for the good of men,

So I, on coming from my mother’s womb,

Being liberated from my prison pen,

Came forth into the world, wailing His doom.

Christ died for me upon the cross again,

And I was born in Christ as from a tomb.

Fortune of War

Quarter, my dear! You have me on my back,

And if there must be slaughter, let me slay;

You’ll like it just as well, I think, that way.

You are a prisoner, but you shall not lack

The amenities of war, though I hew and thwack

Right valiantly. Some men there are who may

Prefer to feast and drink, but I must say

That I prefer the battle and the snack.

To the field, then! I’m neighing for the fray,

My monstrous dart, my polished lance in place,

With my two henchmen bringing up the rear.

Then, do your duty on this glorious day,

And win your spurs, for you shall have to face

Quite soon again this doughty cavalier.


Narcissus was a very silly boy:

He looked into a pool and fell in love

With his own image; I am not above

Narcissus’ folly, as my glances toy

With what my lips would like well to enjoy:

Before the lancers come, with thrust and shove

Of amorous war, I, like a billing dove,

Survey the scene of bellicose employ.

For this is what I live for, if you’d know —

Dearest, the mystery is solved at last;

I’ll whisper it, before I turn to dust.

Lie still and listen till your blood runs slow,

Till flowers are withered, ecstasy is past;

And then, too late! you’ll know the answer: Lust.

Translation; Samuel PUTNAM