Текст и перевод песни Clementino feat. 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.
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!
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.
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!

Woodstock

Clementino: When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Even Rap festivals, all Ganja-Style!
When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Who are you?
A hand grenade, Urban Poet and White Hyena!
Clementino: We started from nothing, then you whine
Recognized in the environment, Clemente has been understood
With a tracksuit and a stench, you stay silent: It's convenient
Bro, with this wall you can't do anything, I have a Bazooka that I point in your face!
On the beat and even if I don't sing, clap your hands
Give me a stage that calls me, bro, Volcano
This is the Miracle that comes down oh
That rhymes stacked oh
The soul that I tear ohhh!
Once upon a time there was the Rap Campano "The Bombers", in the Owners concert,
Hyena of the 90s with the star in the center: Converse
George Best, Showman, Chopin's symphonies
Oscar after the check, action: Sean Penn!
And you still have problems with Rap made in dialect
Back in the day, like a lancet, your head would jump and accept it
For those with a clean or dirtier criminal record
If you've caused panic, bro, this is Woodstock!
Chorus
Clementino: When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Even Rap festivals, all Ganja-Style!
When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Who are you?
A hand grenade, Urban Poet and White Hyena!
Rocco Hunt: The days are always the same, behind these gray windows
Where the days know when they start but not when they end
Anxiety in my hands, and how many chances have gone to waste
Because in front of two denarii, Judas sold out Christ!
Every evil deed done will surely come back double
I hold the bad things inside, even if I'm born a little, I'll explode
These women hide a mystery,
A man when he suffers, he suffers more, when evening comes, his heart aches to die!
There are no more benches, nothing is like before
Gregory hasn't returned, I think he's in Brazil now;
Nostalgia for the old days, when the beard didn't grow
Even Rap was different, the Co'Sang were together
And this pen doesn't run out and this notebook doesn't get wet
The ink doesn't help me to leave things on my skin
I hold every emotion inside like a photograph
That I put on display in the narrow little room of my brain!
Chorus
Clementino: When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Even Rap festivals, all Ganja-Style!
When these singers talk, bro, they talk a lot
Give me the microphone, I'm about to freestyle
From parties, to clubs, and what else? Who are you?
A hand grenade, Urban Poet and White Hyena!