there once was a man from Malcontenta
whose mind (and dick) was incredibly bent;
to save him the trouble, he put it in double,
and instead of coming, he went.

He went from Tessera to Campalto, and all
the way to Marghera, full of rage and gall,
for the evil foreigners, the Milanese,
the socialists, and the capital brusselese

had united in his fancy; his vanity could
not take any more slights, he was determined
to make his voice heard, his worldly knowledge
compelled him to fight for justice. For once

a supporter of the piccolissima Republic of
Venice, the mighty lion cub of the Adriatic,
he had missed the opportunity for xenophobia,
and had rallied behind a Milanese Capitalist,

And then behind a cock-sure rock-hard zealot
from Varese, all the way in enemy territory. And
if slighting southerners from Puglia had proved
a largely irrelevant enterprise, the hero of

this new age had rallied behind the comedian
from Genoa, whose literacy is par with his
wealth, and honour. The five-star legitimacy
of little men and women behind a green screen

further enlightened by their common hatred for
the outside, their lack of sleep, the beauty
of inter-galactic communication, and the ability
to speak in riddles, with propaganda as their

own machine-gun, and Truth (with a capital T)
by their side. “Great people such as these”, quote
our legendary hero from Malcontenta, “can surely
lead us back to the golden age, when the Republic

was great, when immigrants were holograms of the
unknown, when Brussels was a town in Latvia,
and when Donald was just a duck.” But sir! Nigel
is among us, and Marie joins Donald. Come to

the rally in St Mark’s square, all the wonders of
humanity are united, singing in unison: “Death
to the enlightenment! Long live Phascism! We love
Pootin! We love the world as it never was but as it

should be! We are a joyful band, outsiders may
starve, trade was established to embellish our
canals, slaves are just another market good from
Genoa! We are the future! We are one-track minded!”

So the man from Malcontenta joined the fray,
for he knew full well that his identity is just
a mind-trick. His own desire had been thwarted,
growing up among zealots he always had wanted to

be accepted, to become one; his darling father
would finally be proud of him. In the end, the
journey would be completed, and from infant to
child, from child to adolescent, and from adolescent

back to infant, in no less than four decades!
Il faut cultiver son jardin! Oh, wonder! How many
goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!
Oh, Brave New World, that has such people in ‘t !