The Old Religion

Put my shoes on the table,
Carry me out cold tomorrow.
The malefic in the evil eye
Lives also with its sorrow.

You ward off a black cat
With the sign of the horns
Like a gardener trimming roses
Wears gloves for the thorns.

Ask spirits of the vine
But never pledge with water,
You’ll pour misfortune
On your mother and father.

A broom touching my feet
Brushes my dust across the floor
Or leaves me without love
Like a widower at the door.

Better a toccare il ferro
And to wear a cornicello
Than let evil in your soul,
A stranger into your void.

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