Текст и перевод песни Cheb Ruben - Alberto Murroni

Alberto Murroni

Ah
Yo, yo

Lanzo cuchillos como Alberto Murroni
Estos games no son funny
Vistes skinny, antes Karl Kani
Sigues grabando mierda, no me culpes a mí
Quítame la vida como el pus de la herida
Como de España a Cernuda, canción desesperada como Neruda
Hacíamos equipo como Foyone y Gharuda
Paloma Chamorro y la movida
Ahora ya ni me saluda
Yo escribiendo best-sellers, ella leyendo a Maluma
Lo tiro a lo Panenka, a media altura
Le brillaban los ojos, besando largo en la parada
Camino a casa interminable
Luego en la cama pensando en pedirle la mano a su padre
Pero la mano era suya
Tiro a fallar buscando el triple, he perdido demasiadas veces ya
Ah, ah, lo he visto todo
Esa puta solo es otra puta que se cree modelo
Hablando con Dios en los momentos malos
Rezando al demonio en los buenos
Recuerdo, malditos domingos tristes
Recuerdo, maldito día del año
Recuerdo, maldita estación de Atocha
En la que sentiste mi mano en tu coño chorreando
No sé si volverá, pero no creo
Asunto feo, asusta y da miedo
Pensar que me verá y me hará el lío
De mandarme a paseo
Yo me he vuelto un extraño
Fui un señor, ahora to' lo contrario
Dices que esta bilis no la mereces
¿Prefieres acaso mis heces?
Yo, tiburón de agua dulce
Mi mar ha matado a mis peces
Dices que tengo un problema importante
Efectivamente, un problema de narices
Escribo resentido
Sacando partido al hecho de que te hayas ido
De enzarpada con mis hermanitos
Esperando al dominicanito
Me dicen "no me lo explico"
Lo que trae este me suena exquisito
Disfrútatelo, paleto
No lo etiquetes (Yo no lo etiqueto)

Alberto Murroni

Ah
Yo, yo

I throw knives like Alberto Murroni
These games aren't funny
You wear skinny jeans, once upon a time it was Karl Kani
You keep making crap, don't blame me
Take my life like a wound's puss
Like from Spain to Cernuda, a hopeless song like Neruda
We made a great team like Foyone and Gharuda
Paloma Chamorro and the movement
Now we don't even greet each other
I'm writing best-sellers, she's reading Maluma
I shoot like Panenka, at half-height
Her eyes were shining, we kissed for a long time at the bus stop
An endless journey home
Then in bed, thinking about asking her father for her hand
But it was her hand
I shoot to miss, looking for a triple, I've lost too many times already
Ah, ah, I've seen it all
That bitch is just another bitch who thinks she's a model
Talking with God in difficult moments
Praying to the devil in the good ones
I remember, miserable Sundays
I remember, cursed day of the year
I remember, wretched Atocha station
Where you felt my hand on your soaking pussy
I don't know if she'll come back, but I don't think so
It's an ugly situation, scary and terrifying
Thinking that she'll see me and give me a hard time
Tell me to get lost
I've become a stranger
I used to be a gentleman, now I'm everything but that
You say that I don't deserve this bile
Would you prefer my feces?
I'm a shark in fresh water
My sea has killed my fish
You say I have a major problem
Indeed, a “big nose” problem
I write resentfully
Taking advantage of that you left
Partying with my “brothers”
Waiting for the “little Dominican boy”
They tell me "I don't get it"
What he brings me sounds delicious
Enjoy it, asshole
Don't label it (I don't label it)