Pocket of Resistance.

south

Went out and bought some new slacks,
Because what I have,
Can’t be used no more,
I’ve become thick in the thigh,
And a pain in the ass,
My pockets weren’t big enough,
For all the resistance I had to hide.

I wasn’t born in this territory,
But that doesn’t have to mean,
You can take it away from me,
I’m without a religion,
And might be out of Europe too,
But Italy doesn’t just belong to you,

Berlusconi left behind a mess,
Corruption right to the core,
His right hand men,
And his pathetic whores,
Brought Italy down to its knees,
And closed its doors forever more,

They expect to be in power,
And voted for once again,
They didn’t see the end of the tunnel,
Couldn’t see their popularity wane,
While most of the population,
Sticks to its rights,
And plays the same old ball game,
Of being on the left or on the right,
They forgot to see,
That poor Italy,
Has been stripped nude,
And shot to ruins,
All the rules and laws,
Are modified to suit the Mafia,
Who buried their dead in cesspits,
That host the chemical weapons from Syria.

Just as long as you can look the other way,
They will burn your future day by day,
The tomatoes are growing in asbestos filled fields,
And they’ve lost count of how many people they’ve killed.

There are some growing signs,
From testosterone and sheer persistence,
Italy is dying in your arms,
But there are some pockets of resistance.

Public funding went astray,
And lined the pockets of politicians,
That is why all roads lead now to nowhere,
And why there are train crashes in Puglia,
The safety devices are not needed anymore,
When you have a swimming pool to build,
In a villa by the unpolluted sea,
So obvious not being built here in Italy.

We have pockets of resistance,
And artists who have been censored,
Great people from the South,
That tell you the truth from word of mouth.

In Italy you get paid to look the other way,
More dead in our streets every other working day,
but Caparezza and O’ Zulu keep on song,
and Il Parto delle Nuvole Pesanti.

They like to all sing a song,
They are our pockets of resistance,
They sing to show and make you know,
That Italy has nowhere else to go,
So with this pockets of resistance,
We will inhale the truth of the wind,
We will demand life long changes,
Only then can we win.
From the South,
We will build another nation,
Dignified and with pride,
Just like before,
The muscle and the sweat,
Of the population,
Once forgotten,
But never out of mind,
Just like they built before,
The first metro of Milan,
They will come from below,
They will build us a new foundation,
They will make our hearts glow,
The Calabrese, Pugliese,
Sardi, Siciliane and Napolitane.

These pockets of resistance,
Will grow into dreams of joy,
They will be free once again,
Artists from the Magna Graecia,
And we, the world,
Will finally give these people,
The credit that they deserve,
And in the dark dungeons of our past,
Will rot the dreams of corrupt politicians,
That tried to take all of the cream,
Those bastards tried to steal our dreams >
Berlusconi – Polverini
Alemanno – Lega Nord,
Forza Italia – Vaticano
But Now,
Italia reunited from Tropea to Milano,
Pescara to Palermo,
Trieste to Bari
All wanting happily ever after,
All wanting peace and prosperity.

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