Milano northwards leads to god-knows-where,
by Como gleaming in the morning sun ‒
a frightened fascist mistress on the run,
a witness to the end of her affair.
She stands beside the man who led her there,
Valerio aims with a borrowed gun ‒
her thirty-three year journey finally done,
strung up upon a meathook in the square.
The gasoline, the cigarettes, the knives,
the baying crowd, the piss, the boots and fists ‒
a retribution for those wasted lives,
Saint Catherine's day provides a final twist:
Benito's iron folly turns to rust
as Clara's beauty fades into the dust.