My English songs

A few years ago I stayed a week in Liverpool, hosted by an Italian friend of mine who lived there. I met many locals, I went to clubs and could breathe the city’s lively atmosphere.

Once back to Italy, I fell into a sort of trance. Maybe it was John Lennon’s spirit who guided me (c’mon, John, just kidding!), anyway I started to jot down lines on lines of what I thought would be songs. In English. The result was 21 songs written in 14 days!

Actually, there’s no rhyme or apparent rhythm in them, therefore calling them “songs” sounds a bit overstated. But they ARE songs to me, therefore, in accordance with the laws of political correctness, you all out there MUST call them “songs” as well!

In case any of you wants to re-elaborate and use them for their music bands, feel free to do that. But please don’t forget to acknowledge me as the author of the lyrics, and to send me my royalties! Hey, and correct my English, please!

Below you find just 3 of them, but I’m ready to post more on demand…


Soaked in my tub, 8:30 a.m.
Prospects seem to be quite good
For a temporary worker
As I am.

Beyond the window the morning is bright
While I’m reckoning again
With the aftermath of a nervy
Sleepless night.

Babe, I know I should think positive
But I’m afraid I’m gently gliding
Into a numb state of unreadiness.

My interview is cross-town at 10
And I hate to jump on a bus and fight
To keep my finest suit
Off the ill-mannered crowd.

If I were an artist I could safely sink
Into my tub till my fingertips wrinkle.
I shouldn’t take pains to prove
I’m an excellent team-worker.

Babe, I know I should think positive…

All in all, team-working is nothing
But telling each other we can make it.
That’s what I’ve told you for ages
Until you deserted me.

Now the cake of almond-oil soap
Is slipping from my hands.
I’m afraid I’m plunging
Into a numb state of unreadiness.

If I were an artist I’d make the most
Of this state of unreadiness,
And you’d still be at my side
Caressing my moist hair lovingly…


Babe, you know I hate
To get up at eight.
I tune the radio on a news channel
To murmur at those bloody morons
And get some early relief…

If only I could smoke in the morning
I’d cast about for a packet of cigarettes
Instead of staring at the kettle all the time…

Please don’t take it out on me.
You are barking up the wrong tree.
After all, it’s just a chemical matter
Of disordered biorhythms.

I feel more prone to infection
When I get up at eight.
I systematically ignore
All reminders I’ve willingly set
The night before on my mobile.

Please don’t take it out on me…

I like to utter my first sensible word
When I’m all clean and well-dressed.
I like to utter my first word at noon.
I feel so comfy when the barman
Answers in a whisper: “Yes, sir”…

I’ll call you this late afternoon.
I’ll be such a soft-spoken guy
You won’t regret being my wife.
Wait and see, everything
Will straighten up
As I grow older, as we both do.

Please don’t take it out on me…


Susy’s a waitress in my favourite bar.
She sleeps surrounded by flowers
To give her complexion
An enigmatic pale nuance.

Last time I went, I didn’t notice
Susy had her hair dyed black,
But I could feel under my hand
They’ve got new suppliers for paper cups.

I like the silk flowers on their tables.
They don’t steal my oxygen
They don’t threaten my breath
They’ve got those imperishable colours…

She sleeps surrounded by flowers,
That’s what people say.
The flower vendor is a good friend of hers
And a handsome guy as well…

I like the silk flowers on their tables
They don’t steal my oxygen.
I need to be in full possession
Of my mental faculties
To work out my crossword.

I don’t need to get pale
I don’t need to get faintish
I’m not looking for romance
I’m trying to work out my crossword
Before my coffee cools down.

Still I wouldn’t mind if Susy
Rested her enigmatic eyes on me
Just a bit longer, from time to time…

If I could find my tongue, I’d tell her
I’m not an ordinary fool:
I’m an esteemed enigmatographer…

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