Il fannullone

Fabrizio De André
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Versione di CARL nel dialetto pugliese di Altamura (BA)

With no pretense of wanting to overdo it,
I sleep fourteen hours a day.
Also for this reason, in my district
I enjoy the reputation of a slouch.
But don't scorn the good people
if I don’t manage to do anything in life.

You roam the streets almost all night long,
dreaming a thousand tales of glory and revenge.
You recount your stories to a few men now tired,
who laugh, fixing you with blank, empty stares.
You play an annoying role for people,
making of life an amusing comedy.

I even tried to work,
with all my might I tried hard,
but the only result of the experiment
was a tragic increase in hunger.
Respectable people aren’t offended
if I’m not well-suited for carrying the chains.

They gave you work in a big restaurant
washing the scraps of the elegant people.
But you said, "The sky is my only good fortune
and dishwater doesn't reflect the moon."
You returned to sing stories along nighttime streets,
defying the good humor of your worn-out shoes.

I'm not, then, that malicious cur
without morals, tramp and vagabond
who contents himself with a pierced bone
discarded with affectionate scorn.
For the slouch, the heart knows how to beat,
the stray dog has found its love.

You thought of marriage as a turn at a dance,
you loved your woman like a day on vacation.
You took your house as a refuge for your sluggishness,
as a rack on which to hang your jacket,
and your sweet spouse consoled her sadness
searching among people for anyone
that might offer her tenderness.

She went away without making a sound,
perhaps singing a story of love.
She recounted it for a world tired by then,
one that walked inattentive at her side.
She'll return on a summer night,
they will applaud her, the enchanted stars.

From up high the streetlamps will illuminate
the strange dance of two slouches.
The moon will be silver in color
over the backs of the cats in love.

Senze ca wogghie stè a fè ù de chiù
jìje dorme quattordece jòure a la die
pure pe cusse tutte i crestiejne
m'awonne pegghiejte pe nu skualzachejne

nan'ze facessere na malatije
ce jìje inde a la vite nan'zecce la fatije.

Tu vè facenne l'arte de nu crijalasse
derme a capetejle vasce mange e bbive e vè à la spasse
'nge cunde li patùte a chidde e quatte amere vicchie
ca rìt'ne e se stonne a tremènde come e mammalucche

te jàcchie à fè na parte de nu zembre 'mmenze à 'ggende
a ce'rcheje la lemòsene à fè la vite du p'zzende.

Sò pure pruwejte à fatijeje
come a nu ciucce m'ammenebbe a spezzeje
ma la fatìche se chiejme checozze
e chiù la penze e chiù nan'me'ngozze

nan'l'inderesse ce stoke all'abbinde
ce passe ù timbe a menè i pèrd're ò winde.

T'acchiòr'ne nu fuatije jinde a n'osterande
a lavèje li piatt're di signùre chiù 'mbortande
ma tu decivve 'ngille...jè chedde l'utema furtune
e jinde all'acque de i piatt're nan'ge lustre la lune

sciste a fernesce arrète a sunè 'mmenze a la strejte
a rìte sobbe e desgràzzie de chidde scarpe sfunnejte.

Nan'zonde nemmanghe cuddu cuejne r'gnuse
chjìne de zecche bastarde e lagnùse
ca s'accundende de n'esse avvanzejte
ca pe cumbuassiaune m'awonne scettejte

ò skualzachejne u core jè 'mbazzìte
'u cuejne r'gnuse s'è'chiejte la zìte.

Penzeste ò matremonie come a nu gire de tarànde
wuliste bene a chedda fèmene sckìtte pe d'vertemende
sì p'gghiejte chedda chejse pe n'ostelle o pe n'alberghe
o pe n'appennacappotte pe 'ggì a mette la sciammèrghe

e chedda fem'na sande se scì a chieje n'alta rette
ca june allasse e cinde ne jacchie sobbe a la vellètte.

Se n'è 'ggiute citte senz'assì nu fiejte
forse candanne de dò 'namurejte
candaje la storie a nu mùnne ca tenàje
la chejpa scundrariete de weje

s'à và d'trèje la notta chiù belle
'nge awonne à batte li mejne pure li stelle

awonne a fè lusce da sobbe e lambùne
u 'bbualle stràuse d'i dò skalzachejne
la lune à jesse d'arginde la tinde
sobbe a li spadde d'i jatt're cundende.

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