ROSSINI’S CLAQUE
La, la, la, lera! Largo al factotum della citta! Un segreto d’importanza! Una voce poco fa! Ah, compose, rehearse, conduct, dash from two-bit theatres To flea-pit lodgings, commissioning librettos, Held under lock and key by lackeys of impresarios, Tossing off overtures before the tournedos, While strident stagehands fling my rehashed score Page by page to copyists copping it below; or They’d throw Gioacchino through the window prestissimo; Or have my catgut for starters. Castrato, io! Maestro of opera buffa, huh! Studioso ma stufa! Che fiasco, Signor Cressssssscendo! Sooner be a consultant of musica or chef de claque Fabricating not rackets but acoustica dramatic, Orchestrating a clique of claqueurs like Guillaume Tell leading the attack with acclamations, Arpeggios ilarios, audible faints, exclamations istericas.. Anche a concatatena of encores from siffleurs and bisseurs To the claps and taps of the drumming tapageurs And teary pleureuses a-blubber over smelling salts. Buffone, no, but to patrons a chatouilleur of rorts, Hosing down riots, tantrums, fervour, barricades, and I’d make a few bob on the side from ‘Bravo!’ tirades, Propping up prima divas like an aficionado, io! Even that stumblebum Nero burned for a claque, not Clio: Five thousand humming like bees, humble bombi. Che trucco! That dumb cluck, like any bombastic bohemian - come io stesso! Sought to sweeten his speech with a sheet of lead Weighted ‘pon his chest to clear his bowels to the cloaca grossa By enema and vomits - cleansed and bled.