Social Waste

His mother was a gypsy
An Andalusian from Seville
His father on the other hand
A sailor from Cornwall
They say he had no palm line
He carved one with his knife
The destiny you can’t define
You give a kick and knock it down
He often lost himself in books
In the Utopia of Thomas More
He has been deeply loved
By kids, young girls and madmen
He was a poor along the poor
And by the dogs he was a dog
They say he disappeared in foreign lands
Or went back inside the ink pen.

As my right hand man and pilot
My friend Corto is that I have
My travel buddy and company
In hard times and good days
My right hand and right arm
In triumphs and defeats
I have him as my first captain
My friend Maltese Corto

Sometimes my palm is itchy
Is it the ink? Is it the knife?
To get up the nose of the lieges
The Iron Heel as Jack London called them
In the colony I carry inside
In Venice, my mistress
But also here in this miserable monopoly
Somewhere between the Lycabettus and the Acropolis
And then again short-memoried
-oh the sirens song!-
for mysterious parts of the map
And I get off the mast
My bag on my back
The feet open the way
In the dammit of the Utopia
Here we go again, me and Corto

As my right hand man and pilot
My friend Corto is that I have
My travel buddy and company
In hard times and good days
My right hand and right arm
In triumphs and whammies
I have him as my first captain
My friend Maltese Corto