How easily Silvio slips off the lips,
Berlusconi trips over the tongue;
But now that the gambler has fumbled his chips,
And his trap has been suddenly sprung,
The grease of Italian pals and their palms
Must change. There's a new kind of cream,
To press into flesh, or to cover the arms,
To make the skin glisten and gleam.
Out with old sump, and on with the new,
With so much to displace or demolish:
Diesel is heavier, clings like a glue,
Is more than a slap and a polish.
The dew will be dense on Italian soil
Once Silvio's whisked far away;
And waters, still troubled, change diesel for oil
(No fuel like an old fuel, they say).