Translation of a song by Fabrizio de Andre

The boss says that I’m lazy, always dragging through my shift
But my after-hour hobbies are where I put my gifts
My baby’s almost ready, and I’ve nursed through every glitch
Now he make his grand debut, with a detonator switch 

My little Pinnochio, my dear handcrafted son
The physics are ideal although it’s short a couple tons
I won’t get shining medals like Verdun or at the Somme
I’m not an general, no- I’m the man who sets the bomb

I double check each recipe before I will proceed
And step lightly with the package- I’m not here to die shahid!
When in my hand’s the power, by my wit and my chutzpah
To grant the state forgiveness or to make the coup de grace 

There are those who throw us under so they don’t get overthrown
Those who wait out in the rain so they don’t have to cry alone
Or who get their kicks with marches and the drummer’s rom-pom-pom
Thats not the life for me- I’m the man who sets the bomb

Today’s stale dinosaurs were yesterday’s avante garde
My theory’s not in ink; but on the marble it is charred
Let them foresee revolution in their dialectic charts
I’ll make my own solution with self taught destructive arts
I’ll track those class enemies, who you’ve battled over tea
Then take my place among the lumpen when I’m finished with my spree
But as long as I am out there, it’s not me who’s on the run
I’m the spectre haunting everywhere- the man who sets the bomb

They took our pride and power, they seized our minds and reins
And they poured it back down on us from the bellies of their planes
I’ve come to pay the masters back their breadbaskets and toys
The terror of confusion, the fire, dust, and noise
If I’m not completely right, then at least I’m barely wrong
And history needs some dynamite to help it move along-
The revolution is not coming on a breeze that lifts a song
But on the breeze that reeks of powder, says the man who sets the bomb 

Optional:
And if you see me laughing on the capitol lawn
I’m just waiting for the blast that brings the long awaited dawn
And if you see me burying my face into my hands
Then my Pinnochio was wasted on a newspaper stand  
But what really hurt my pride, and still feeds my rage
Was the Sunday funnies blowing around with every page
And my front page manifesto, that I wrote with such aplomb
Is now a mix of Beetle Bailey and the man who sets the bomb.