Standing in the hot Tuscan sun where roads cross,
The mustachioed tattered prince of a despised race
Of centuries of darkness squints at the line of cars arriving
From the cool countryside queuing up at the red light.
With only a minute to work sparing no extra effort,
he bypasses a dirty little Ape, a full taxi, the motorini;
And moves towards the clean new Mercedes,
the cool driver behind tinted glass staring ahead.