Employees at the post office never work
And as the queues lengthen, the times become shorter
Our savings shrink
Clots in the arteries of the capital, which doesn’t love us
Who lost his heart by playing poker
Giving it to the cheat of the three-card game
At platform number 17 of Termini station
And if my life will stop here I won’t give a damn
Since time acquires a meaning only for those who have none
And I willingly give you mine
But it is a waaaste of words
A thought to throw away
A waaaste of words
A badly written sentence
Ungrammatical
Nobody talks about the melancholy of fish
About who was born on April 1st and does not believe this
Is just a case
Rather a joke of destiny
Of the memories you remember, choose only the most beautiful ones
And leave the others to those who did not know you, in short
Who did not choose you
The moral question, the question is immoral
If the ones who cash in are always the same
And our plate always keeps crying
But it is a waaaste of words
A thought to throw away
A waaaste of words
A badly written sentence
A waste of words
Just breath to waste
A waaaste of words
A thought gone bad
Forgotten