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Poem	Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions. Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future. You are very idle, my songs, I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops, You do next to nothing at all. You do not even express our inner nobilitys, You will come to a very bad end. And I? I have gone half-cracked. I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me, Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing! But you, newest song of the lot, You are not old enough to have done much mischief. I will get you a green coat out of China With dragons worked upon it. I will get you the scarlet silk trousers From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella; Lest they say we are lacking in taste, Or that there is no caste in this family.
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