The f’lofficer a the coffee-bar
The men a this wirld, well, the lod are all like
Beans in a coffee grinder as they’re getten grounded:
Wun afta r’ anutha pops up as they riggle in that tite
Space, bud in the end, they’re all fadèd ta be pounded.
Offen they switch pozzies, an wun’ull elbow away,
If he’s bigger, the smaller bean ta the ouder.
They tumble ad each utha’s heels in the doorway
Ta that meddle’ud’ull chirn’em in’a mere powder.
An that’s how men live here on earth, I’ve foun’:
Fate wirks the lodduv’em in’u’a fine blend
As it spins’em, wun an all, round an roun’,
An as each wun moves, slow or strong, fat or thin,
They always sift thru, clueless, ta the boddem, an end
Up fallen down its craw as deth drinks ‘em in.
—Giuseppe Gioachino Belli (translated by Peter N. Dale)
—found in The Yellow Nib (2006; Vol. 2; this poem composed ca. 1830-1839)
—view in original Italian (Romanesco, dialect of the core of the Metropolitan City of Rome Capital)