"I've already grown a goiter at this drudgery,
as the water gives the cats of Lombardy,
or else it may be in some other country -
which sticks my stomach by force beneath my chin.
With my beard toward heaven, I feel my memory-box
atop my hump; I'm getting a harpy's breast;
and the brush that is always above my face,
by dribbling down, makes it an ornate pavement.
My loins have entered my belly, and I make
my ass into a crupper as counterweight;
without my eyes, my feet move aimlessly.
In front of me my hide is stretching out
and, to wrinkle up behind, it forms a knot,
and I am bent like a Syrian bow.
Therefore the reasoning that my mind produces
comes out unsound and strange,
for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.
Giovanni, from now on
defend my dead painting, and my honor,
since I'm not in a good position, nor a painter."
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