Текст и перевод песни Modre Hory feat. James P. Honey - Cau Ty Tu

Cau Ty Tu

Sme starí jak svet, v ktorom blues bolo mladé,
Blues bolo všade. Daj mi pade!
Sme zápisky bláznov, čo sa desia tých,
čo hlásajú, že sú hlasom generácie. Srať na nich!
Bo my občas netušíme ani to,
či vôbec môžeme hovoriť sami za seba. Bro, platí to?
Desíme sa davov a hlúposti
A hlupákov v dave a hlupákov všade.
A ešte šedi v tom svete, kde blues už je staré.
A tak máme rap, čo šepká, keď treba kričať,
A kričí, keď by mal držať hubu.
Sme tak starí, že si pamätáme, že fičalo Fubu.
Bojíme sa tých, čo majú názor na všetko
A k tomu patenty na pravdu.
Vraj vyštudovali vysokú školu života
A ja pochybujem, či vôbec dokončili základku.
A vraj pravda je niekde uprostred.
Tak Roland, prosím, daj môj vokál trocha do strán,
Lebo by som sa asi prepadol od srandy,
Kebyže hentí ma majú brať vážne.
A svet vôkol furt tvrdí, že nie sme v kríze.
Akurát nerešpektujeme slobodu slova. H?
Lebo nemôžu na steny kresliť hákové kríže
A dôchodca suplujúci tajné služby si to zlízne.
A tak píšem, nech kričím, nech amplitúda skacká,
Lebo je neprípustné označiť nácka za nácka!
A tak to tu hnedne, žumpa preteká,
A ja len ziapem žvásty, bo neviem viac.

(Lyrik)
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
Ktorá je aj pre mladých,
Interkonekt, jeden svet,
Rasizmom sa nikto nechváli.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
V ktorej propaganda, hoaxy sú len sranda,
Ktorá nás má pobaviť
A len dvojito overené fakty sú pravda.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
Ktorá sa na nenávisť nechytá,
Ale na rozvážne múdro hej,
časovaná bomba netiká.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
V ktorej neni za päť minút dvanásť,
Psi sú dole z reťazí, žereme menej mäsa a
Nechceme sa uškvariť kvôli CO2.
A niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
Kde rap má čo povedať a je bomba
A nielen random rým hrôza, nielen
Motivačná próza a nielen póza, čo nemá obsah.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
Kde tvoja sídlisková krčma crew
Rozjíma nad pivom a pálenkou o porozumení
A nepodlizuje sa zlu.
Niekedy sa mi zdá, že žijeme v krajine,
Kde si v prvom rade slobodný individuál
A až potom rasa, štát, prvok, ovca,
Koliesko, súčiastka či dav.
A tuším sa mi nezdá, že keď spravíme v sebe niečo,
Tak bude z toho niečo,
Lebo keď nespravíme nič,
Tak bude z toho nič.
A tuším sa mi nezdá ani to, že potom
Jeden, druhý, tretí, štvrtý politik
Ti s blahosklonným úsmevom
Naští, naští, naští, naští, na tvoje sny.

(James p. honey)
Nobody said it would be fair or light
Humoured - distant flare, red mist on a red horizon.
This is scalping country.
Nobody said it would be fair or light humoured - go stare
Someplace else, you′re spoiling my shellfish hors d'oeuvres.
Parasite publicist.
Sorrow sings a sad song in the feeble light of a wounded moon.
Drizzle came on like a spangle of
Sequins streaking down on growling window pane.
Another day in the death of a slow colonial comedown.
Motorway. allotment. library closure. popcorn politics.
Supermarket strip lights like police
Truncheons erect at peaceful protests.
Celebrity sightings and exciting cover stories of displaced
Immigrant war victims drowning in
Overloaded makeshift boats in frozen waters.
Reflections of a flickering monitor screen on varnished plywood.
Notes towards an apology - a clutter of vignettes:
Get a bunch of celebrities on a beach doing yoga,
Beam it out and drag it over a whole season of
Programming, a success spanning decades, accolades they rain down.
Finally you′ve found a thing you can be proud
Of take some responsibility for your wellbeing.
Stop listening to the radio or reading newspapers - little more
Than hatred to be found - as diverse as a divas walk in wardrobe.
Slow motion close up of the shiny chevrons on the
Shoulders of a soldier dead in this place of plenty.
This is scalping country.
Nobody said it would be fair - distant flare red mist on a horizon.
This is scalping country.

Why You There

We are as old as the world, in which blues was young,
Blues was everywhere. Give me five!
We are the notes of madmen, who are afraid of those,
Who proclaim they're the voice of a generation. Screw them!
Because sometimes we don't even know,
If we can even speak for ourselves. Bro, is that true?
We fear crowds and stupidity
And fools in the crowd and fools everywhere.
And even gray in the world where blues is already old.
And so we have rap that whispers when it needs to shout,
And screams when it should shut up.
We're so old that we remember when Fubu was cool.
We are afraid of those who have an opinion on everything
And patents on the truth.
They say they graduated from the high school of life
And I doubt they even finished elementary school.
And they say the truth is somewhere in the middle.
So Roland, please, put my vocals a little to the side,
Or I would probably die of laughter,
If those guys are gonna take me seriously.
And the world around keeps saying we're not in a crisis.
We just don't respect freedom of speech. Huh?
Because they can't draw swastikas on the walls
And the pensioner substituting for the secret service will get it.
And so I write, let me scream, let the amplitude jump,
Because it's unacceptable to call a Nazi a Nazi!
And so it browns here, the slop overflows,
And I just sigh nonsense, because I don't know anything else.

(Lyrik)
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Which is also for young people,
Interconnect, one world,
No one brags about racism.
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Where propaganda, hoaxes are just fun,
Which is meant to entertain us
And only double-checked facts are true.
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Which does not hold on to hate,
But to prudent wisdom, yes,
The time bomb is not ticking.
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Where it's not five minutes to twelve,
The dogs are off the leash, we eat less meat and
We don't want to get burned because of CO2.
And sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Where rap has something to say and it's a bomb
And not just random rhyme horror, not just
Motivational prose and not just a pose that has no content.
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Where your neighborhood pub crew
Reflects over beer and booze about understanding
And does not curry favor with evil.
Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a country,
Where you are first and foremost a free individual
And only then race, state, element, sheep,
Wheel, part or crowd.
And I don't think it seems to me that if we do something within ourselves,
Something will come of it,
Because if we do nothing,
Nothing will come of it.
And I don't think it seems to me that then
One, second, third, fourth politician
Will shit on your dreams with a condescending smile.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

(James p. honey)
Nobody said it would be fair or light
Humoured - distant flare, red mist on a red horizon.
This is scalping country.
Nobody said it would be fair or light humoured - go stare
Someplace else, you′re spoiling my shellfish hors d'oeuvres.
Parasite publicist.
Sorrow sings a sad song in the feeble light of a wounded moon.
Drizzle came on like a spangle of
Sequins streaking down on growling window pane.
Another day in the death of a slow colonial comedown.
Motorway. allotment. library closure. popcorn politics.
Supermarket strip lights like police
Truncheons erect at peaceful protests.
Celebrity sightings and exciting cover stories of displaced
Immigrant war victims drowning in
Overloaded makeshift boats in frozen waters.
Reflections of a flickering monitor screen on varnished plywood.
Notes towards an apology - a clutter of vignettes:
Get a bunch of celebrities on a beach doing yoga,
Beam it out and drag it over a whole season of
Programming, a success spanning decades, accolades they rain down.
Finally you′ve found a thing you can be proud
Of take some responsibility for your wellbeing.
Stop listening to the radio or reading newspapers - little more
Than hatred to be found - as diverse as a divas walk in wardrobe.
Slow motion close up of the shiny chevrons on the
Shoulders of a soldier dead in this place of plenty.
This is scalping country.
Nobody said it would be fair - distant flare red mist on a horizon.
This is scalping country.