Thus my mother to herself this morning as she was putting on her coat to go out shopping. Her beret reminded her of this line from her childhood. In Italian, donkey is asino, but in Istria—and perhaps in Veneto, as well—it was mus or muso. My mother is not sure any more whether or not the entire song to which this line belonged had an anti-fascist tone, but the connection with Mussolini is evident here—if even the big boss would not wish to join the military, why should I have to? At any rate, lines like this one, which now surprise and delight my mother almost daily, all have one feature in common—they rime. Rime is about memory. And so was poetry, once upon a time.