Paroles et traduction Toteking - Bartleby & Co.

Bartleby & Co.

Porque en realidad necesito mantenerme siempre tal como estaba al principio
Que cuando empecé a escribir
Donde no me, no me preocupaba nunca el riesgo
Porque si un libro iba mal no, no pasaba nada
Porque han ido, habían ido mal los anteriores
Y el riesgo es fundamental para poder ser libre a la hora de escribir
Y no estar pendiente de lo que has hecho antes, ni, ni de que pueda fracasar el libro

Ah, pensar en dejarlo, mi idea recurrente
El T.O.C., perderme
Ser un Bartleby sin banco
Olvidar el folio en blanco
Fantasear con la idea de no escribir más
Y dejar de ser una sombra de la realidad
Si lo analizo fríamente
Creo que en total hablo más solo que con gente
Perdiendome la vida pa' contársela al de enfrente
En mi cárcel con sus tres comidas
Sin ser un matador ni un Mario Kempes
Y me imagino abandonándolo, inservible
Buscarme un curro físico que sea cierto y tangible
Salir de mi burbuja de líricas enfermas
Currar a lo Lester Burnham
Y en mi descanso, pesas y fumar hierba
Y esta claro que sí sé con certeza
Que la peor de to's mis compañías siempre ha si'o mi cabeza
La hija puta me da letras que me han pagao' un palacio
Y sin embargo siento que dentro el tiempo mata despacio
Y no sé si me equivoque de curro
Podría haberme dejado esas orejeras de burro
Seguir el signo, acabar el CAP, buscar un empleo fijo
Y ser una mierda de maestro pa' el inútil de tu hijo
No puedo evitarlo siento celos
De la aura de alegría que desprende el camarero
Mi oficio me ha dotado pa' alegrar tus días tristes
Pero jamás podre confeccionar sus chistes, créelo
La gracia que no me han da'o, el sol que apenas valoro
Comparalo con estar encerrado en mi estudio grabando coros
Día tras día la impotencia me llena
Pensar que na' de lo que he escrito hasta hoy es mierda buena
Comprar el pan y descubrir la belleza
El color de al lado, melocotones y fresas
El puzzle gira y yo ni sé cómo se llama mi pieza
Los codos ennegrecidos siempre clava'os en la mesa
Ni mirando mi lista de emoticonos más usa'os sé quien soy
De dónde vengo, a dónde voy
Un dia siento que mi rap no tiene sustancia
Y otro dia que yo le hago al rap el rescate de Bankia
Aún así pensar en dejarlo, pensar en dejarlo
Ideas en bucle sin sentimientos como Lorne Malvo
¿Cómo le digo al manager que se ha acaba'o?
Si estamos en Enero y hay seis festis confirma'os
Tiro pa'lante como siempre y te vomito
Las canciones que ya has escuchado diez años en tu equipo
Si tú estás cansa'o, imagina yo que a veces las recito
Y olvido la letra por pura supervivencia ¡Chico!
Ya no sé ni lo que quiero pero sé a quien quiero
Entre el cielo y el infierno, tú lo más bonito
Hoy me mola esta mierda y mañana ausente
Esto ya ni es rapear, es arqueologia presente

Pensar en dejarlo, buscarme algo
Donde nada esté a mi cargo y mi mente a salvo
Me he vuelto loco, eso ya es un hecho
Me he comido mi cabeza y una mano en el pecho
Pensar en dejarlo, toa' la vida escuchando
¿Qué te pasa Tote? ¿En qué estás pensando?
Estoy valorando esta locura
Esta impostura me esta matando

This is real life
I'm liking the show
Just a rebel to the world with no place to go
I be blowing up spots like I was sending out mail bombs
Hold me down at all
This is real life
I'm liking the show
Just a rebel to the world with no place to go
I be blowing up spots like I was sending out mail bombs
Hold me down at all

Bartleby & Co.

Because, really, I need to always stay like I was at the beginning,
When I started writing,
Where I didn't, didn't worry about the risk,
Because if a book went wrong, nothing, nothing happened,
Because the previous ones had, had gone wrong,
And risk is fundamental to being free when writing,
And not be aware of what you've done before, nor, nor that the book could fail.

Ah, thinking about quitting, my recurring idea,
The O.C.D., losing myself,
Being a Bartleby without a bank,
Forgetting the blank page,
Fantasizing about the idea of not writing anymore,
And stop being a shadow of reality.
If I analyze it coldly,
I think that overall I speak more alone than with people,
Missing out on life to tell it to the person in front of me,
In my jail with its three meals,
Without being a matador or a Mario Kempes,
And I imagine myself abandoning it, useless,
Finding a physical job that is real and tangible,
Getting out of my bubble of sick lyrics,
Healing à la Lester Burnham,
And in my break, weights and smoking weed,
And it's clear that I know for sure
That the worst of all my companies has always been my head.
That bitch gives me lyrics that have paid for a palace,
And yet I feel that time kills slowly inside.
And I don't know if I got the wrong job,
I could have left those donkey ears on,
Follow the sign, finish the CAP, find a permanent job,
And be a shitty teacher for your useless son.
I can't help but feel jealous
Of the aura of joy that the waiter gives off.
My job has given me the ability to brighten your sad days,
But I can never make up his jokes, believe me.
The grace that I haven't been given, the sun that I barely appreciate,
Compare it to being locked in my studio recording backing vocals.
Day after day, impotence fills me,
Thinking that nothing I've written to this day is good shit.
Buying bread and discovering the beauty,
The color next door, peaches and strawberries,
The puzzle turns, and I don't even know what my piece is called.
Blackened elbows always nailed to the table,
Not even by looking at my list of most used emojis do I know who I am,
Where I come from, where I'm going.
One day I feel like my rap has no substance,
And another day, that I'm the one rescuing rap, like Bankia.
Even so, thinking about quitting, thinking about quitting,
Ideas on loop without feelings like Lorne Malvo.
How do I tell the manager that it's over?
If it's January and there are six festivals confirmed.
I keep going as always and vomit on you
The songs you've already heard for ten years on your stereo.
If you're tired, imagine me, who sometimes recites them,
And I forget the lyrics for pure survival, man!
I don't even know what I want anymore, but I know who I want.
Between heaven and hell, you're the most beautiful thing.
Today I like this shit and tomorrow, absent.
This is not even rapping anymore, it's present archeology.

Thinking about quitting, finding something
Where nothing is in my charge and my mind is safe.
I've gone crazy, that's a fact.
I ate my own head and a hand on my chest.
Thinking about quitting, my whole life listening to
"What's wrong, Tote? What are you thinking about?"
I'm evaluating this madness.
This imposture is killing me.

This is real life
I'm liking the show
Just a rebel to the world with no place to go
I be blowing up spots like I was sending out mail bombs
Hold me down at all
This is real life
I'm liking the show
Just a rebel to the world with no place to go
I be blowing up spots like I was sending out mail bombs
Hold me down at all