Paroles et traduction Herman Medrano - Odio I Cantautori

Odio I Cantautori

Te rasarò l'aioea, e po ghe pisso sora
Te speto fora da scuoea e te scanbio pa na suora
Co a facia pulita, e i pomi e i libri
No te piase studiare, te piase brusare
Me toca sentirghene de tuti i coeori
Dai ciocoeatini ae scuse co i fiori
E quando sta buèa eà te dise: bea idea
Prova pensare dove inpirartea sta orchidea
Marco xe 'ndà via e no ritorna pi
Anca laura no ghe xe ma el motivo te si ti
Pa e cassade inculcae e incueade col sabion
Voria incuearte ti 100 ani, e anca ron
Mi no so da manco dei cantanti de sto rango
Strenxeme i cojoni che canto come mango
Me rivolgo a chei mas-ceti che pa una se rovina
Ti no te si iacheti che ogni ano canbia veina

Odio i cantautori co chitare e cori
Te si uno de eori? chissà che te mori
Mi no serco rogne, resto so ste fogne
Fasime na perissia che vago stare a cogne

E co me sposo, i denti me i rifasso
Canto tochi tristi e come pessali ingrasso
Che mi xa so basso, so alto un metro e un casso
Se stresso col me canto seto che fine fasso?
Sposarò na svissera e canto co i dementi
Finchè no eà me moea e fasso dischi de lamenti
Magari fin chel giorno a farà film porno
Devento capo del governo e i sparira' de torno
El resto no teo conto ma in testa nol me moea
Me copavo de seghe 3 giorni al'ano a tencaroea
So chea scuoea che te insegna che tocasse xe pecato
Noncuranti dell'incuria in cui a curia assa un curato
El futuro no xe queo, un bel aneo al deo
Magnar come un bueo e deventare come un vedeo
No tocarla co un deo, no caresarghe el peo
Pensar de fare queo soltanto pa fare un puteo

Odio i cantautori co chitare e cori
Te si uno de eori? chissà che te mori
Mi no serco rogne, resto so ste fogne
Fasime na perissia che vago stare a cogne

E quanto te amo? te amo da morire
Ma assame stare che so xa come sofrire
Come un can co un guinsaglio de manco un metro
Come faghe a na mosca un aerosol de piretro
Ma quando che eà te dise: vorrei sei banbini!
Casca i altarini col teorema de coradini
E se me casca anca i brassi podarsi,
Che me ridussa co mastrotta a vendare stramassi
A ste quatro insemenie incoeàe aea teevision
Che te da eà fotografia dee condission de sta nassion
Che se scolto ste canson me fasso na domanda:
Co ne more uno ne vien fora altri quaranta?
Se tuto el resto è noia te resti co eà voia
Eori vende i dischi ma i ga magna eà foia
E ti col mutuo, fioi e manco de 1000 euro
Altro che cansonete, te ve drito in neuro

Odio i cantautori co chitare e cori
Te si uno de eori? chissà che te mori
Mi no serco rogne, resto so ste fogne
Fasime na perissia che vago stare a cogne

A te ghe un catalogo de biancheria intima
E te si insieme co un rutto che se fa dire: sei bellissima
Vai,vai, va fate 4 passi xo in diga
Cussì te ciapi l'ocasion pa dighe che a xe figa
Come se pa parlare dea voja che te ghe de ciavare
Ogni volta te gavessi da portarla davanti al mare
E xe robe de na demensa sovrumana,
Sti cantautori, sti fioi de putana

I Hate Singer-Songwriters

I'll shave your armpit hair, and then I'll piss on it
I'll wait for you outside of school and mistake you for a nun
With a clean face, and apples and books
You don't like studying, you like to burn
I have to listen to them, from all the hearts
From chocolates to apologies with flowers
And when your girlfriend is there, she says: good idea
Try to think where this orchid got its inspiration
Marco is gone and he's not coming back
Laura is also gone but the reason is you
For the houses built and nailed with sand
I'd like to nail you for 100 years, and Ron too
I'm no less than singers of this rank
Squeeze my balls 'cause I sing like Mango
I'm talking to those guys who ruin themselves for one girl
You don't understand that every year the vein changes

I hate singer-songwriters with guitars and choirs
Are you one of them? Maybe you'll die
I'm not looking for trouble, I'm staying on these ashes
Do me a favor and let me go to sleep

And when I get married, I'll redo my teeth
I'll sing sad touches and I'll get fat like fish
Because I'm already short, I'm one meter and a box tall
If I stress myself with my singing, what will I end up doing?
I'll marry a Swiss woman and sing with the demented
Until it's my wife and I'll make records of lamentations
Maybe until that day I'll make porn movies
I'll become head of the government and they'll disappear again
The rest I don't care about but it doesn't enter my head
I would jerk off 3 days a year in Tencarola
I know that school teaches you that touching is a sin
Regardless of the negligence in which the curia leaves a curate
The future is not that, a nice ring on your finger
To eat like an ox and become like an old man
Don't touch her with a finger, don't caress her hair
Think of doing that only to make a child

I hate singer-songwriters with guitars and choirs
Are you one of them? Maybe you'll die
I'm not looking for trouble, I'm staying on these ashes
Do me a favor and let me go to sleep

And how much do I love you? I love you to death
But let me be, I already know how to suffer
Like a dog with a leash less than a meter long
Like spraying a fly with pyrethrum aerosol
But when she tells you: I want six children!
The little altars fall with Corradini's theorem
And if my arms fall off too, you can bet
That I'll be reduced to selling brooms with a prostitute
To these four fools glued to the TV
Which gives you the picture of the conditions of this nation
That if I listen to these songs I ask myself a question:
When one of them dies, do forty more come out?
If everything else is boring you stay with the desire
They sell records but they got eaten by the leaf
And you with the mortgage, children and less than 1000 euros
More than little songs, you went straight to the neuro

I hate singer-songwriters with guitars and choirs
Are you one of them? Maybe you'll die
I'm not looking for trouble, I'm staying on these ashes
Do me a favor and let me go to sleep

You have a catalog of underwear
And you're together with a fart who calls himself: you're beautiful
Go, go, go take a walk down to the dam
So you take the opportunity to tell her she's hot
As if to talk about the desire you have to fuck
Every time you had to take her to the sea
And they are things of an inhuman madness,
These singer-songwriters, these sons of bitches