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Scapecchi.

Scapecchi 'O Poet, in a cool late summer evening watching the mountain kidnapped, said: "Ah, what a vegetable."
Idly sitting at the usual corner table in the outdoor area of \u200b\u200bthe sole bar in the country tracking philosophized auction of a notebook with squares remained to the days of elementary successfully attended for twelve years been licensed to exhaustion of the teacher. For us, young and inexperienced in life, he was the lighthouse. His phrases, like bright tracers, we showed the right way, his breath could make it go in a hurry. The thoughts and words to all but often there was no one around him. The vacuum harassing him. An empty glass, then, bother him. "A drop of wine never hurt anyone. A glass filled not kill the fantasy." he said raising his voice a little while squinting his right eye, the one he had. Became 'the Poet O day from the stable of his grandmother ran the pig. That afternoon, as always, was resting in a barn when he heard the old cry: "'O pig!' Or pork! Oe, come, Currie! Scapecchi! Cuorno and bicuorno! Do 'fuck you!" He pointed with his eyes closed in the sky, an ear of corn between his teeth, started, little by little, slowly. He saw the huge animal to pass up clouds of dust along the dirt road and down, just behind the grandmother who tumbled cursing all the saints of Paradise. Seized by sudden inspiration he composed the first poem in a flash and with outstretched arms and open hands, turning to the sun, so he recited: "'O pig!' O pig! Currie people! D'isso nothing if Ietto sape and that cuorno bicuorno and waiting for him. And mo 'than miezzo au sky' na de fuorma Muzzarelli held in the beautiful star closed, ACCA is you I'm singing, pork, nun scuorno ago, tuorna au pole. "
Passarone two hours and the pig was finally recaptured and taken back a stick from his grandmother to the barn. Meanwhile, "The ode to pork" went around the country. Scapecchi in the evening at the bar, he was awarded by the Mayor with a laurel wreath and appointed by popular acclaim 'O Poet. followed copious libations and endless pats on the back. 'O Poet, as a result of blows received, became curved and slightly hunchbacked. He, at first, there was bad, then the night in his bed in the dim light of a candle, leafing through a old encyclopaedia saw a portrait of Giacomo Leopardi with under the caption "great poet.." We found similar and was pleased. Prodded by the Supreme vicinaza began busily at work developing the theme of the pig in a thousand ways. After years at his own expense he published a small book of poems he called "Pigs." with whom he won the first prize of the Poetry of which he himself called for the feast of the patron saint of Senerchia. Grandmother to celebrate the event proposed to slaughter the pig. They knew nothing of poetry is opposed. There was nothing to do. The Christmas after all the villagers had the gift of a signed Scapecchi salami.