In America - Dead Obies traduction en anglais

In America

Pis t'es pogné dans l'Sud
Le goût d'get the fuck out, les deux Jordan s'a suce!
Jeune Joe Mantegna, coat Margiela
Gros plans d'chilleux, hein?
Y t'ont dit "work pour un p'tit pain"
So tu work pour un p'tit pain
Pis quand tu sors dins clubs
Ta blonde twerk sur du T-Pain
Pis toi, tu dis rien, tu t'y plais
Tu y laisses du tip un p'tit peu
Tsé, tu ball la fin d'semaine

Ti-cul mort-né, livin' a miracle in America
Hors-piste, cassé, still bawssy
RCA su'a langue, Joe dans l'âme
Encore le même hustle, même smoke dans l'crâne
Prêt à dominer l'monde quand on roll ensemble
Mais nos chemins s'séparent chaque saison
Chacun son hustle

Han, chacun son hustle...

HLM achalandé, As-Salaam-Alaikum, haschisch à l'étage
Ça sent le pookie-man couché dans les marches
Half and half, damn, c'te fois-là, c'tait pas le boss
Une five dans un baggie scellé, on voit bien qu'les gars s'trustent (you know)
Shit's hot, cherche une place à l'ombre
Roche, papier, ciseaux, baby, burn it and I'm gone
J'pull un Bernie Ecclestone, j'ai genre un milli' dans le ashtray
And there's a lot of things que mon screening peut pas acheter
I should find another reason, j'manque d'excuses pour get du dough
À quatorze, tu get high, à quinze, tu sais plus trop
Comment get high enough "half a dozen, I should have enough"
Mais là, la demande accote pas l'offre, demande à David Hasselhoff
Ça fait qu'tu rentres cinq minutes avant d'souper
Pis là, ta mom te dit "wassup!" pis tu réponds avec un soupir
Homies on my mind, fait que t'as pas l'temps pour la vaisselle
En plus, le push, c't'un imbécile, y a changé son numéro d'cell, fucker!
Pris de panique, un mardi soir dans le sud, pas de chronic
How sad, le loup a pris ma place
Vestige de hustle, panier d'épicerie dans' glace
T'es un ado, tu t'fais deload pi la popo t'rit dans' face
Guess imma take care of my own
Park Lane feels like a million miles away from home
Spark le cone quand t'as pas le gros bout du bat
On and on dans le sud, it's like that (twenty)

(...)
Han, chacun son hustle...

Encore des chélis dans des Mazda deux
Check un wigga go wild pour son sachet d'beu
Yeah, and we ridin' high
Get busy dans une shop, stress nine to five
Toute une poignée d'mo'fuckas, dans marde jusqu'à calotte
Gettin' high sur une bottle, toi qui marches dins cadavres
(Sud Sale) Même travail
(Sud Sale) Same parade
(Sud Sale) Même salaire
(Sud Sale) Inch'Allah!
Yeah, and we ridin' high
Get busy sur une puff, sip nine to five
Still chillin', so chaque fin d'semaine
Tu fais shaker ton squelette a'ec des p'tites chélis
So t'es ready, tu veux t'jet dans une Chevy
Mais tu text dans une Civic pis tu stress
C'est ton boy qui t'le dit, man "work pour un p'tit pain
Ti-cul, work pour un p'tit pain"

"Work pour un p'tit pain"...

Welcome to the sud
Where niggas got dreams of a new Viper
Where the keys to a Beamer is a screwdriver
I put in work with the Revy (custom piece!)
30-0-6 in the Chevy (Box Caprice!)
Mississippin' with the Remy
Colt forty fifth, twist a swish and fuck a ratchet bruitch
(I fucked yo bitch!)
On my way to the riches
Still blowing stank, 'bout to rob a bank with my niggas
(That shit cold!)
And what you know about them country folks?
Peanut butter jelly fed and hungry for a pair of Forces
(Shit's ignant!)
And we still don't give a fuck
Cause this is how we did it in the dirty dirty sud!

How we hustle in the sud
How we hustle in the sud
Giving no fucks that's how we hustle in the sud...

(...)

In America

Stuck in the South, baby
The urge to get the fuck out, both Jordans are sucking!
Young Joe Mantegna, Margiela coat
Close-ups of chill dudes, huh?
They told you "work for a little bread"
So you work for a little bread
And when you go out to clubs
Your blonde twerks to T-Pain
And you, you say nothing, you like it
You leave her a little tip
You know, you ball out on the weekend

Stillborn little ass, livin' a miracle in America
Off-piste, broke, still bawssy
RCA on my tongue, Joe in my soul
Still the same hustle, same smoke in my brain
Ready to dominate the world when we roll together, girl
But our paths separate each season
Everyone's got their hustle

Han, everyone's got their hustle...

Packed HLM, As-Salaam-Alaikum, hashish upstairs
Smells like the pookie-man lying in the stairs
Half and half, damn, this time, it wasn't the boss
A five in a sealed baggie, you can see the guys trust each other (you know)
Shit's hot, looking for a place in the shade
Rock, paper, scissors, baby, burn it and I'm gone
I'm pulling a Bernie Ecclestone, I've got like a milli' in the ashtray
And there's a lot of things my screening can't buy
I should find another reason, I'm running out of excuses to get dough
At fourteen, you get high, at fifteen, you don't know anymore
How to get high enough "half a dozen, I should have enough"
But now, supply doesn't meet demand, ask David Hasselhoff
So you get home five minutes before dinner
And then, your mom says "wassup!" and you answer with a sigh
Homies on my mind, so you don't have time for the dishes
Plus, the push, that idiot, he changed his cell number, fucker!
Panicked, a Tuesday night in the south, no chronic
How sad, the wolf took my place
Vestige of hustle, grocery basket in the mirror
You're a teenager, you get deloaded and the cops laugh in your face
Guess imma take care of my own
Park Lane feels like a million miles away from home
Spark the cone when you don't have the big end of the bat
On and on in the south, it's like that (twenty)

(...)
Han, everyone's got their hustle...

More girls in Mazda 3s
Check a wigga go wild for his bag of weed
Yeah, and we ridin' high
Get busy in a shop, stress nine to five
A whole handful of mo'fuckas, in shit up to their hats
Gettin' high on a bottle, you who walk among corpses
(Dirty South) Same work
(Dirty South) Same parade
(Dirty South) Same salary
(Dirty South) Inch'Allah!
Yeah, and we ridin' high
Get busy on a puff, sip nine to five
Still chillin', so every weekend
You make your skeleton shake with little chicks
So you're ready, you want to throw yourself in a Chevy
But you're texting in a Civic and you're stressed
It's your boy telling you, man "work for a little bread
Little ass, work for a little bread"

"Work for a little bread"...

Welcome to the south
Where niggas got dreams of a new Viper
Where the keys to a Beamer is a screwdriver
I put in work with the Revy (custom piece!)
30-0-6 in the Chevy (Box Caprice!)
Mississippin' with the Remy
Colt forty fifth, twist a swish and fuck a ratchet bruitch
(I fucked yo bitch!)
On my way to the riches
Still blowing stank, 'bout to rob a bank with my niggas
(That shit cold!)
And what you know about them country folks?
Peanut butter jelly fed and hungry for a pair of Forces
(Shit's ignant!)
And we still don't give a fuck
Cause this is how we did it in the dirty dirty sud!

How we hustle in the sud
How we hustle in the sud
Giving no fucks that's how we hustle in the sud...

(...)