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Estoy rapeando en el Fun Club en el 97
Ahí posiblemente tú llevaras chupete
Bibidi badibibu sin puerta en el retrete
Más que pa' la sala son palabras para el Pepe
Fuimos el Óscar y yo pa allí, mira mi maqueta
Y alquilonos la sala por 16 mil pesetas
Que entonces no era tanto y menuda jugarreta
Cuando viste la sala to completa
Y mi madre allí en la puerta llenando las maletas
Desde entonces mi grupo se respeta
Nunca habia visto pasta y esto nos dio una meta
Hay fotos mias forrando las carpetas
Con mi cara de tonto y fumandome algún peta
Oscar está detrás mientras escríbome esta letra
Mi tiempo, mis canas, mis vetas
Aprendí a escribir pero aun te hablo con la z
Por los 30 y otros 30 que nos quedan
Cuando algo dura es que no sopla velas
A modas pasajeras, año tras año y era tras era colega
Desde que el Alameda era droga y prostitución callejera
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver
Lo poco que me corrompo por lo mucho que me exijo
Tu nos has visto crecer y nosotros ver crecer a tus hijos
Por la madre que me trajo
Por las leyes que me rijo
Yo nunca quise un trabajo a sueldo fijo
Mirarse mas al espejo un viejo me lo dijo
No es un acertijo
Es dar cobijo a quien te da cobijo
Perdona que no arpegie, me equivoco y me corrijo
Que alivio
Triana, Raimundo Amador o Silvio
Y un intento de cantante con un estribillo rana al final te lo silbo
Puesto de critica al bilbo
Porque el tiempo no puede matar lo que se hace con ganas
Y yo me niego a pensar que me levanto una mañana
Y ya no sirvo
Por eso he escrito algunos libros
Pero de cagar suelto no me libro
Cuando viví en el centro y entraba a tu sala de madrugada
Pa esquivar los palos de los polis porque el PP mandaba
Cuando mi arte es hobbie
Remuevo el alma
Y hago parrafadas que alejan tu vista del movil
Son los gajes del oficio, vaya vicio pa un panoli
Curro y sacrificio
Tinta en la piel pa rellenarte un boli
El funclo entre su mucha decoración
Fotos mías de muchacho con un chándal de charol
Los vecinos en el techo llamando a la pestañí
Si un día te deshaces de esto Pepe, vendérmelo a mi
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver
Volver a pisar esas tablas, si me llevan mis pies
Y volver a volver a volver

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I'm rapping at the Fun Club in '97
You were probably sucking on a pacifier back then
Bibidi badibibu, no door on the toilet stall
These words are more for Pepe than for the living room
Oscar and I went there, check out my demo
We rented the room for 16 thousand pesetas
Which wasn't that much back then, and what a trick it was
When you saw the room completely full
And my mother at the door filling up the bags
Since then, my group has been respected
We had never seen money, and this gave us a goal
There are photos of me lining folders
With my silly face and smoking a joint
Oscar is behind me while I write these lyrics
My time, my gray hairs, my veins
I learned to write, but I still talk to you with a lisp
For the 30 years we've had and the 30 we have left
When something lasts, it doesn't blow out candles
Passing fads, year after year, era after era, my friend
Since Alameda was all about drugs and street prostitution
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return
The little I corrupt myself for the much I demand
You have seen us grow and we have seen your children grow
By the mother who brought me into this world
By the laws I abide by
I never wanted a fixed-income job
An old man told me to look in the mirror more
It's not a riddle
It's giving shelter to those who give you shelter
Forgive me if I don't arpeggiate, I make mistakes and correct myself
What a relief
Triana, Raimundo Amador or Silvio
And an attempt at singing with a froggy chorus, I'll whistle it for you at the end
Place of criticism in Bilbao
Because time cannot kill what is done with passion
And I refuse to think that I will wake up one morning
And no longer be of use
That's why I've written some books
But I can't help but shit myself
When I lived in the center and entered your room at dawn
To dodge the cops' beatings because the PP was in charge
When my art is a hobby
I stir the soul
And I make paragraphs that take your eyes away from your phone
These are the perks of the job, what a vice for a simpleton
Work and sacrifice
Ink on the skin to refill a pen
The Fun Club, among its many decorations
Photos of me as a kid in a patent leather tracksuit
The neighbors on the ceiling calling the cops
If you ever get rid of this, Pepe, sell it to me
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return
To step on those boards again, if my feet take me there
And to return, to return, to return