At the Workers' Psychiatric Ward
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          ^{La realtà è la realtà, c'è mica altro...          
          La Classe Operaia va in Paradiso (1971)}

Lulù. Militina says hi.
Foam-dog in asylum. Rabid with newspapers.
Shuddering in Inferno. Gloves burnt at the fingertips.
Thirty years at the machines. Trenta! Three fingers raised.
Imagine that. Still, the same dredgefuls for lunch.
Sixty years old. Sogna ancora della fabbrica.
He never knew his place in the Big Machine.
Where his tiny cog would fit. Only rumors.
But rumors are for Leftists. For Commies with altoparlanti.
And who pays for them to stand there with their loudspeakers!?
Who pays for them to hand out their pamphlets!?
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Lulù. Militina says hi.
He knows you ragazzi all talk ill of him.
You say questo and quello. Then you go però… and stab.
No one remembers Militina. But he says hi.
The only ones who remember Militina are now with him.
In iron bunk beds. In long hallways with meshed windows.
Scratching at pustules. Pulling at their cocks.
Operators and assemblers! Mechanics and technicians!
Machinists and welders! Cutters and brazers!
Workers! Workers! Barking at nurses!
Pulling at their cocks! Frothing at the mouth!
Crazy in asylum!

Lulù. Militina says hi.
He says il nuovo uomo del capitalismo ti saluta.
He whispers porta le armi! Bring weapons!

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