If you're reading these memories mean I'm dead. Not bad, I know that I do not regret for a long time, but now you are here feel my will. You know they are not at all creative, so I leave the text of a Song De Andrè, called precisely "the will"
'When death calls me,
perhaps, someone will complain,
after reading what's in the will
bequeath
maleditemi not, no need to
to nothing so I'll be in hell already
the protectors of the hookers
leave from a job because
accountant experienced in their job to warn the population
every weekend
above the rent of a bitch I want to leave
Bianca
in which he rubs of decency, a certificate of merit
that the marriage will pave the way with best wishes for those who
is to keep happy and fell
horned
Sister Death leave me the time to finish my
will leave me the time to say goodbye to revere
to thank all the authors of
circle around the bed of a dying man
Mr gravedigger I hear a little
his work not at all like
do not consider it a good game
cover much ground
who rest in peace and that is why I am proud
spade in hand over the gold
To candidate
old Countess who does not move from my bed
more to eradicate the unhealthy
promise to reserve my numbers the lottery
not wait to go among the damned
to report all the wrong When death
ask me to return the freedom
perhaps a tear, maybe one on my grave will be spent
maybe just a smile perhaps a
sprout from my memory If I already corroded the flesh
where my heart beat time
were born one day a rose
do to the woman who offered me her crying
for each beat of his heart
make it a red petal of love
to you that you were the more
contention that the courtesan is not given to all
and now the corner of that church
sell pictures to the beautiful and ugly
leave notes of this Song
hand the pain of your illusion
for you have to get by
forced to sell Christ and the saints
When death calls me
anyone in the world will realize that a man died without speaking without knowing the truth
that a man died without praying
escaping the burden of piety
Dear brothers on the other side
sang in the choir down to earth in a hundred
we loved the same woman in a thousand
we left for the war itself
this memory will not comfort you
when you die, you die alone
this memory will not comfort you when you die
Die Alone '
And then I add a verse myself, forgive me, but I'm not able to write in rhyme. A word to the wise.
the tribes of the mussel-bigoted
leave the photo of a beautiful altar, St.
because they always what to do,
beyond good and evil, because they have always
reason
no matter the opinion of others ,
because they have always right, no matter
other people's opinion.
And now a couple of last things.
I give and bequeath to my true friends, even if I do not see those from time immemorial continue to stay close, what if sometimes I'm not with them do not pretend to have offended, those who criticize me know if they criticize me and above can do it with me , well, In short, I leave them my blog, if they can read it, destroy it, they can add something, maybe you can even publish this my will. It also leaves them with all my books, and will choose as their scores, knowing that what I like best are those of meditation, the mystical, investigation of those religions.
Then, more specifically, I leave a little dog that Marianna was the first street to Holy Cross and that made us go through hell, I leave it to Margi the kiss that I've never given (come on, it did not take 'a gypsy for understand that I really liked it for a period) and duty to let the user of the Antichrist: How to Become Pope and demolish the Church.
Then if something moves you you because I did not really want to continue ...
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