Poems in mockery of painter Giovanni Baglione

Gioan Bagaglia non sai ah
le tue pitture sono pituresse
volo vedere con esse
che non guadagnarai
mai una pamcca
che di comma panno
de Ferri un paro di bragesse
che ad ognun mostrarai
quel che fa la cacca
portela adunque
i tuoi disegni e cartoni
che ai fano a Andrea pizzicarolo
o veramente forbete ne iI kulo
o alla moglie di Mao turegli la potta
che libelli con quel suo da mulo pin non
la fotte
perdonami dipintore io non fi adulo
che della collana che tu porti indegno sei
et della pinnra vituperio.

In English:

John Bags, you haven't a clue that your paintings are woman’s-work.
I'd like to see you never earn a worth-less penny with them.
Because with as much cloth as it would take
to make yourself a pair of baggy trousers,
you’ll show everyone what shit really is.
So take your drawings and your cartoons that you have made
to Andrea the sandwichman,
or wipe your ass with them,
or plug up Mao’s wife’s cunt with them,
because he doesn't fuck her anymore with that big mule’s dick of his.
Pardon me painter if I do not sing your praises,
because you are unworthy of that chain you wear,
and worthy only of painting’s vituperation.

Gian Coglione senza dubio dir si puole
quel che biasimar si mette altrui
che puo centro anni esser mastro di lui.
Nella pittura intendo la mia prole
poi che pittor so vol chiamar colui
che non puo star per macinar con lui.
I color non ha mastro nel numero
si sfaciatamente nominar si vole
si sa pur il proverbio che si dice
che chi lodar si vole so maledice.
Lo non son uso lavarmi la bocca
ne meno di inalzar quel che non merta
come fa l'idol sup che e cosa certa.
Se io metterme volessi a ragionar
delle sre fatte da questui
non bastarian interi un mese o dui.
Vieni un po'qua tu che vo'biasimare
l'altrui pitture et sai pur che le tue
si stano in casa tua a'chiodi ancora
vergognandoti tu mostrarle fuora.
Infatti i'vo'l'impresa abandonare
che sento che mi abonda tal materia
massime s'intrassi ne la catena
d'oro che al collo indegnamente porta
che credo certo meglio se io non erro
a pie gle a perche credo bueto
avesse certo come e suo douto
altrimente ei saria un becco fututo.

In English:

Without doubt you can call him John Testicle,
who sets himself to criticizing someone else
who could be his master for a hundred years.
I mean in my beloved art of painting,
became he wants to call himself a painter
even though he couldn't even grind colors for me.
Colors are no slaves to numbers,
if one shamelessly wants to say they are,
and everyone knows that proverb that goes:
you disparage those whom you ought to praise.
I am not accustomed to washing out my mouth,
nor to exalting one who doesn't deserve it,
as his idol does, for certain.
If I wanted to set myself to speak
of the shameful things this man has done,
a whole month or even two would not suffice.
Come here a minute,
you who want to criticize other people’s paintings
even though you know that yours are still nailed up in your house
because you are ashamed to show them.
In fact I want to give up
trying to speak of your reasons to be ashamed
because I feel I have too much material to work with,
especially if I get started on that gold chain you unworthily wear,
because I believe, if I do not err,
that it would be better if there were an iron one around your ankle.
Of all that he has said with passion, it’s certainly because, I believe,
he’s drunk. he ought to be, or otherwise he'd just be a fucked-over cuckold.