Lyrics and translation Tommy Engel - Die Stadt - Live

Die Stadt - Live

Grau die Stadt, und grau ist der Strom,
Blood is rut, und alt is der Dom,
Minsche krümmen sich ehlend für Nuut,
Prunk un Stöz, im Dreck litt Brut.

Mohl se dr schön, von mir us in Gold,
Mohl se dr heil, dann drächste kein Schuld,
Mohl dat se dir et letzte noch nemmp,
Mohl se rich, und alles stemmp

In dieser Stadt jitt et Jode un Schlächte,
Schwache und Starke, met jet in dr Mau,
Ärme und Riche, und Linke und Rächte,
Einer is brav, dr andre schlau.

Alt, die Stadt, doch innerlich jung,
Schwer vergeff, und doch hätt se Schwung,
Schrief, he liggen die Lück in dr Sood,
Schrief, he jit et Lück mit Moot.

Alles stemmp, und alles stemmp nit,
Schlag ene Ärme, dann biste in quitt,
Klüngel is e krank Sediment,
Wer drüfer laach, die Stadt nit kennt.

Mir fiere vaterstättische Feste,
Karneval fiere sojar schon uns Pänz,
Mir sinn im fiere noch immer de Beste,
Dat met dr Heiterkeit nemmen mir änz.

Kölsch heißt Bier, katholisch is kölsch,
Paafe un Puffs, Jeschwüre dr Zick,
Rotz un Wasser kriesche nur mir,
Dr Kresch is noh, die Hoffnung bliev.

Pänz sin frech, un Kinder han Jlück,
Schlimm die Stadt, doch ich kumm zurück,
Vill is mieß, un dat bin ich satt,
Ich messe nur die Lück us dr Stadt.

Lück met Jewesse und Lück met Jewehre,
Fremde un Türke, dr Tünnes un Schäl,
Schloppkrade, Hillije un stulze Prolete,
Liebe mät jong, un Neid mät jel.

Ob söß oder better, Du muß üverläve,
Jot oder schläch, et is ming Stadt.

The City - Live

Gray is the city, and gray is the river,
Blood is thick, and old is the cathedral,
People toil in vain for nothing,
Ostentation and debauchery, vice wallows in filth.

If it were beautiful, perhaps even made of gold,
If it were holy, then you would bear no guilt,
If it took the last thing you had,
If it made you rich and you resisted everything

In this city there are good and bad,
Weak and strong, with something in their mouths,
Poor and rich, and left and right,
One is good, the other clever.

Old, the city, but young at heart,
Hard to forget, and yet it has momentum,
Here, the people lie in the mud,
Here, there are people with courage.

Everything resists, and everything doesn't resist,
If you hit a poor person, you are done,
Nepotism is a sick sediment,
Anyone who laughs at it doesn't know the city.

We celebrate fatherly festivals,
Even our children celebrate carnival,
We are still the best at celebrating,
We take the fun seriously.

Kölsch means beer, Catholic is Kölsch,
Priests and brothels, ulcers of the time,
Only we get snot and water,
The cancer is near, but hope remains.

Children are cheeky, and children are happy,
The city is bad, but I will come back,
Much is rotten, and I am tired of it,
I only measure the people of the city.

People with conscience and people with guns,
Foreigners and Turks, Tünnes and Schäl,
Slobs, saints and proud proletarians,
Love grows young, and envy grows old.

Whether good or better, you must survive,
Good or bad, it is my city.