Paroles et traduction Don Joe feat. Clementino & Rocco Hunt - Woodstock

Woodstock

Clementino: Quann sti cantant, frà, parlene assaj
Ratem' o microfono ca s'avot a freestyle
Re party, a 'e club, e quant n'saj? Fino e fest' e Rap, tutt a Ganja-Style!
Quann sti cantant, frà, parlene assaj
Ratem' o microfono ca s'avot a freestyle
Re party a 'e club, e quant n'saj? Chi si?
'Na bomba a mano, Poeta Urbano e Iena White!

Clementino: Simm partut ro nient, che aropp tu t'allamient
Riconosciut' all'ambient, se n'è carut Clemente
Cu na trasut e fetient, tu riest muto: Cunvient
Frà cu stu mur n'faj nient, teng o Bazooka ca punt int 'e rient!
'Ngopp o beat e manc' e can, sbatt 'e man
Rateme nu palco ca me chiamm, frà, Vulcano
Chist è o Miracolo c'abbasc' oh
Ca rima 'ncatast oh
L'anema ca straccio ohhh!
C'era una volta il Rap Campano "The Bombers", nel concerto Owners,
Iena anni 90' con la stella al centro: Converse
George Best, Showman, sinfonie di Chopin
Oscar dopo il check, ciak: Sean Penn!
E tien ancor' 'e problem co Rap fatt in dialetto
A tiemp', par' a lancett, te zomp' a capa c'accett'
Pe chi ten a fedina bona o chiu' sporca
Si tu 'e fatt o panico, frà, chest è Woodstock!

Rit.

Rocco Hunt: 'E jurnat semp e stess', aret a sti fenest grigie
Addo a jurnat' saj quann accummencia e nun saj quann' fernesc'
L'ansia rint 'e man, e quanta chance so jut' a puttan
Pecchè annanz a duje renar Giuda se vennett a Cristo!
Ogni cattiveria fatta staj sicur' torn o doppio
'E cos brutt 'e teng 'nguorp, manc' natu poco e scoppio
Sti femmene annasconnene o mister',
N'omm quann soffr', soffr' over. quann se fa sera pija o core a muorz!
Nun ce stann chiu 'e panchin, nient è comm a prima
Gregory nun è turnat, io pens' ca mo sta o' Brasile;
Nostalgia re viecchi tiemp, 'e quann a barba nun criscev
Pur o Rap era diverso, 'e Co'Sang stev'n assiem
E nun se scarica sta penna e stu quadern' nun se regn'
L'inchiostr' nun me serv a lascià a robb' ngopp a pelle
Ogni emozion a teng a int comm a na fotografia
Che mett appes' int a stanzett astrett ro cerviell mio!

Rit.

Woodstock

Clementino: When these singers, bro, talk a lot
Give me the microphone because it's time to freestyle
Party king, in the club, and what not? Up to the festivals and Rap, all Ganja-Style!
When these singers, bro, talk a lot
Give me the microphone because it's time to freestyle
Party king in the club, and what not? Who are you?
A hand grenade, Urban Poet, and Iena White!

Clementino: We are everywhere nothing, that makes you worry later
Recognized in the environment, Clemente is fallen
With a step and stink, you stay mute: convenient
Bro with this wall do nothing, I have a Bazooka that points into the laugh!
On the beat and no dog even, clap your hands
Give me a stage because I call myself, bro, Volcano
This is the Miracle that knocks me down oh
That rhymes the catastro oh
The soul that I tear ohhh!
Once upon a time there was the Rap Campano "The Bombers", in the Owners concert,
Iena 90s with the star in the center: Converse
George Best, Showman, Chopin symphonies
Oscar after the check, action: Sean Penn!
And still have the problem with Rap made in dialect
In time, like a hand, I jump on your head with an ax
For those who have a good record or the dirtiest
If you're freaking out, bro, this is Woodstock!

Chorus.

Rocco Hunt: Days always the same, behind these gray windows
Where the day I know when it starts and not when it ends
Anxiety in my hands, and how many chances have gone to waste
Because in front of two renars, Judas sold himself to Christ!
Every meanness done you can be sure to return double
The ugly things I keep inside, just a little more and I'll explode
These women hide the mystery,
A man when he suffers, suffers too much. when it gets dark he takes the heart to death!
There are no more benches, nothing is like before
Gregory has not returned, I think he is now in Brazil;
Nostalgia for the old times, when the beard did not grow
Even Rap was different, Co'Sang was together
And this pen is not unloaded and this notebook is not filled
Ink does not serve me to leave things on my skin
Every emotion I have inside like a photograph
That hangs in a tight little room in my brain!

Chorus.