Memories of Verona (Ricordi di Verona)

When people talk of fair Verona's lovely town
Mayhap they think of hapless lovelorn Romeo
And his star-crossed Julietta, poor due bambini,
Or even of the nice Roman amphitheatre
Famed scene of operatic extravaganze
Where (from the cheapo seats) you need a telescope
To perceive what the fuck is happening on stage
(Even if the tench of stale garlic from your neighbour
could be borne through three-plus acts of lyric drama),
And where the yawns of visiting rubberneckers,
Come to lick the hem of culture's dressing gown,
Almost drown out plump distant divas' arias.

But I have sadly seen the dark and lethal side
Of this allegedly charming Italian town,
As it was where one of my beloveds
Met a truly horrid end before my very eyes.
I was wand'ring 'round the streets of this lovely cìttá,
With my (then) affianced one on my manly arm;
('twas St Valentine's Day I do clearly recall
which only adds to the sorrow of what ensued).
She was a lovely dark-skinned lass from Mantua,
Gilda by name; and beauteous was she to behold,
Especially when seen from behind on her hands and knees,
Naked as the day she was born (to coin a cliché),
Waiting to enjoy a wholesome meat injection
From my magnificent 'salami d'amore'.

But her hideous hunchback papa, a wicked fellow
(pathologically possessive of the only fruit
of his distorted, and loathsomely hairy loins)
Had intemperately placed a contract on us both
With a vicious Mafia hitman, Sparafuckilo by name,
Who leaped out from a pizzeria with a vile oath
And filleted poor Gilda like a Scotch kipper,
Leaving her looking like a bucket of offal,
Standing ready to be turned into canned dogfood,
Before turning his dastardly attention to me,
O what a totally vicious motherfucker.

But, as you may imagine, cari amici,
I had decided discretion would be by far
The better part of valour without any doubt,
And thus had done a strategic runner subito,
Only pausing to sell my unwanted opera seats
For that evening's performance at a healthy profit
To some gay German tourists in pink Lederhosen.

My innate common sense suggested it would be
An unwise move to remain in the vicinity,
Whilst the late Gilda's Quasimodian poppa
Was still hot on the fucking vendetta warpath.
No matter, I thought to myself, as I pogo-sticked
(rather recklessly I may add considering
my protruding three-knuckle-deep haemorrhoids)
Out of town en route to my next assignation,
A rendezvous with luscious Lola, lonely wife
Of one Alfio, a long-distance lorry driver,
Whose cuckold's horns were soon destined to receive
Yet another woody flowering thanks to me,
In the face of rustic chivalry. Capito?