“But he’s famous!” goes a voice outside a bar in Trastevere. A footballer? Politician? Big Brother contestant? Film star? “Ok, was famous,” the voice concedes, meaning none of the above. Trilussa, or Carlo Salustri, to de-anagrammatise his real name, was a poet, and a dialect poet at that. Albeit the dialect is romanesco – the patois of Caput Mundi, its other great practitioner being Gioachino Belli, who in timeless marble top-hat and tails stands at the beginning of Viale Trastevere.

Like his forebear, Trilussa has a restaurant named after him (Taverna Trilussa in Via del Politeama), not to mention a hotel further up the avenue. There’s a Trilussa hardware store – not unsuitable given the down-to-earth nature of his verse. Then there is also an eponymous square flanking the Tiber: up from an amalgam of ancient stone emerges his bronze head turned bluish green with time, then a hand, fingers scanning the air for his audience.