He arrives as a joke in the schedule,
a weekday nobody asked for—
Beppe with his shoelaces untied,
ink on his homework,
a future hero allergic to deadlines.
Then Sunday bends the week around him,
slips a crown into his pocket
disguised as a medallion,
whispers through the hinge of time,
You will be Yattodetaman,
whether or not you’re ready.
The Calendar Men shuffle days like cards:
Sabato, Lunedi, Settembre, Ottobre—
villains named after the way we measure waiting,
each scheme a bad appointment with destiny,
each failure a punchline written in bold colors.
They chase the Cosmopavone,
a firebird of schedule and fate,
always one scene ahead,
like a task you move from list to list
and never complete.
Meanwhile Beppe steps into the suit:
torero of chronology,
cape of primary colors flaring
against stock‑footage skies.
His fear does not vanish;
it simply learns choreography—
one hand on the fluted sword
that stamps a Y on every monster,
one eye on Tina,
who still thinks she’s just holding his hand
through another ordinary afternoon.
Time here is not a line but a looped theme song,
a brass refrain that returns every episode:
new trap, same laughter,
new robot, same King Star rising at the cue.
Justice arrives on schedule,
punching a hole in the fourth wall
exactly before the credits,
so children can go to bed knowing
tomorrow’s chaos is already penciled in
and provisionally defeated.
In another century, a critic calls it “light”,
but feels something heavy under the slapstick:
how a cowardly boy keeps saying yes
to a transformation he never fully owns,
how an entire kingdom depends
on a joke that became a duty.
Calendar Men keep losing,
yet the Cosmopavone keeps escaping,
like the feeling that no victory
in this age of reruns is ever final.
Still, there is this:
for twenty‑four minutes at a time,
a scatter‑brained kid outruns his own fear,
the days of the week collide in neon,
and somewhere between Sabato and Lunedi
a small audience learns
that even the most reluctant future
can be faced in costume,
on time