A poem to convince Lollobrigida of the groundlessness of “ethnic substitution”

In the Rome of the second half of the 19th century, a singular character roamed around, known to all, even if forgotten today. He was a doctor, or rather one who had studied medicine, who however had always very seriously believed himself to be a man of letters; one of those, however, endowed with a comic spirit that manifested itself above all by taking himself so seriously, as to deserve – and boast – of the nickname of “cucurbitaceous poet”, perhaps ever since some students crowned him in a classroom as a sign of honor by girding his head with cabbages. In the “Parnassus Cretino”, a very serious column that appeared in the magazine “La Tribuna” in 1927, we find a passionate description of ours written by Aldo Bianco, who also reports his remarkable attempt, in 1886, to run for Parliament, with posters posted overnight in all corners of Rome that promoted the “cerusic doctor, Manzonian-Dantesque poet, author of an unsurpassed monograph on the volvulus”. Aldo Biancoin the aforementioned number of the Tribuna, also informs us how he was in Rome “the joke of all, the object of sensational glorifying celebrations, which he took for good money”, of which he also provides an example in an occasion hymn for he composed:

“Honor to that soil,

What did the almo sol give,

That beautiful sunflower

By Bridget Lol”

Our “Brigida Lol” was none other than a Lollobrigida, and the native soil celebrated in this unfortunate sonnet was Subiaco; Pietro Lollobrigida born in that locality, like the national Gina and like the minister Francesco, who anticipated both in receiving the affectionate nickname of “Lollo”. If I had had the discernment and foresight to first read the newspapers of the time and the works of this illustrious ancestor of the current minister, I would have understood that the tone for making myself understood would have had to be different from the one used in yesterday’s article; for this reason I will try, with my limited means, to translate my thoughts “à la mode” of Lollo from 150 years ago, hoping that the playful register of that never forgotten poet will serve me better than the considerations of the biologist you read yesterday. So, here are the concepts already expressed, turned into four-line stanzas, with alternating rhyme; and if this attempt of mine turns out to be painful, perhaps Lollo the old man will turn over in his grave over the result, and will want to advise the minister and the Italians better than I am able to do, in avoiding certain outings whose comedy is surpassed only by the echoes of a dangerous nostalgic and supremacist environment.

Of national food,

wanting to discuss,

the real origin

it must be remembered.

Looking at that ham,

so traditional,

observe how the fruit is

of pig food.

A food that contains

in spite of the donkeys,

a very specific gene,

inset among its peers.

Campari red,

color yes perfect,

it is good to learn it

it comes from an insect.

The story of each dish

it’s just an invention

that given a suitable time

turns into tradition.

And if for alimony

the beginning is innovation

you can remain silent

about how much is the nation?

Of migrant peoples,

for ten thousand years,

they are all children

under modern clothes.

Even boasting of the Romans,

of which some are delighted,

the beginning is among the migrants,

a certain named Aeneas.

Who doesn’t like the myth,

but to whom Italian is named,

of many races the finger

it shows in the genome.

Even that culture,

from which we boast,

he was never afraid

to mingle with many,

if it is true that of Egyptians

of Greeks and other peoples

in Rome the artifices

already the minds won.

Circassian was the mother,

and slave for addition,

whose father he became

of Gioconda’s rice;

among the fathers of the Church,

of Hippo or of Tarsus,

for every where it came down

the lineage and the scattered gene.

And so there is only

an identity trait

suitable just because

is the most unitary one:

a mixture of each gene,

of creed and flavours,

which explains where it comes from

the set of values.

There is none in the nation

who boasts an ethnicity

without replacement

of what was before;

there is not even culture,

among those of the country,

which does not give a mixture

has its moves taken;

and even in the kitchen,

among so many good things,

blend is the queen,

of ideas from every country.

And then come back fully

to what is more Italian:

minister is not stupid,

nor the old follow in vain!