The song is about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of communism, especially about the end of Italian communism. 

The Sunday of Corpses

He tried to escape by tram
At around six in the morning
From the barley water bottle
In which Milan floats
It wasn’t hard to follow him,

The poet from the Baggina hospice
His enlightened soul
Emitted a light like a light-bulb
They burned his bed
On the road to Trento

From his beard the only survivor
Was a fighting robin redbreast.

The Poles didn’t die immediately
And kneeling down at the last traffic lights
They fixed the makeup of the regime’s whores
Hurled towards the sea.

The soap bar traffickers
Put their bellies to the East
Those who converted in ’90
Were exempted in ’91.

The Fourth Reich’s monkey
Danced the polka upon the wall
And while it climbed
We all saw its arse.

The Pyramid of Cheops
Had to be rebuilt in that day of celebration
Stone by stone
Slave by slave
Communist by communist.

On the Sunday of corpses
You could hear no gunshots
The laughing gas
Ruled over the roads.

The Sunday of corpses
Took away all concerns
And the queens of “tua culpa”
Crowded the hairstylists.

In the sunny jail of the homeland
The second jailer
Told “Tallow Mustache”, who was the first one
It can be done tomorrow at dawn
And messengers, infantrymen
Horses, dogs and a donkey were sent
To announce the amputation of the leg
Of Renato Curcio, the Carbonaro.

The Minister of Storms
Among jubilant trombones
Hoped for democracy
With the tablecloth on his hands and his hands on his balls.

I want to live in a city
Where at happy hour
There is no waste of blood
Nor of detergent.

Late in the evening me and my eminent cousin De Andrade
Were the last free citizens
In this famous civilised city
Because we had a cannon in our courtyard
A cannon in our courtyard.

On the Sunday of corpses
No one got hurt
Everyone was following the coffin
Of the deceased Ideal.

On the Sunday of corpses
You could hear people sing
Youth is so nice
We don’t want to get old anymore.

The last travellers
Retired to the catacombs
Turned on their televisions and watched us sing
For about half an hour
Then they told us to piss off.

You who sang upon pogo sticks and kneeling
With portable pianos and dressed as Pinocchio
You who sang for the Longobards and the Centralists
For the Amazon forest and for money
In the palaces of stylists
And for the Marists
You had powerful voices
Your tongues were trained at beating the drum
You had powerful voices
Fit to say fuck off.

On the Sunday of corpses
Those in charge of nostalgia
Accompanied with flutes
The cadaver of Utopia.

The Sunday of corpses
Was a Sunday like many others
On the next day there were the signs
Of a terrifying peace.

While the heart of Italy
From Palermo to Aosta
Swelled in a choir
Of vehement protest.