It's time the tale were told of how You took a Child and You made Her bold

It's time the tale were told

Of how You took a Child

And you made Her bold...

So far away from Manchester

A Southern child... from Italy

English wasn't my language

But I dearly wished it were

I was seven years old

When I started studying English

And I dreamt of being a poet,

And a singer, painter, dancer

Never meant to be a teacher

Never dreamt to be a preacher

Never wanted to be a bore

Never asked for having more

Than my family and a table

In my very little garden

for my solitary Summers

Books, Lego, paper, pencils

And a radio like a window

Opened wide, as my ears

To all good kind of Music

What a chance not to be in France

For the French had no taste

And they still like music waste

What a chance for me to have

RAI Radio 3 for classical music

RAI Radio 2 for rock, punk and pop

And an older sister out of her teens

Who introduced me to The Smiths

At school, my awful teacher,

Still young but so ignorant,

Frustrated, envious and bitter,

Didn't know who was this

Steven Patrick Morrissey

And his band of normal guys

Popping up in my essays

Along with Saint-Exupéry

(at least, she knew the latter

But she didn't learn anything

From the Wise Little Fox)

If only she had known

I sang "Hang the Teacher!"

When I came back home

She would never have a clue

But She'd treat me even worse

Than she usually did

Morrissey

A message on the whiteboard at school, this afternoon.

T. V. B. means "ti voglio bene" in italian, from the latin "bene velle".