Translation of the song lyrics K y B - Beny Jr, Morad

K y B (original)

Tiran pero porque se pican-pican-pican-pican-pican
Tiran pero porque no llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan
Tiran pero porque se pican-pican-pican-pican-pican
Tiran pero porque no llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan
Todo aquí está pasando, estoy cansado, ya han da’o la siete
El dice que ya está harto y en 2001 no se mete
Meto este último— y manda a alguien en Corvette
Y que no me estén hablando de paga’o, si no, se le hace un boquete
Seguro que está tirando y seguro están imitando
Ando con el Morad montado en un biturbo, yo paseando
Dis-Disturbio si ya jugamo', yo la toco como el Iniesta
Por la banda entrando Mustafa y les partimo' la defensa (Pu-pu)
En el campo con el Gafia yo me siento algo incomparable
Si hay guerra seguro sale y no sabe ni artes marciale'
Si lleva la 9 puede ser que para él tú ya vales
El respeto a subnormales y de mí hablan unos pares
Bush-Bush, y salimo' dispara’o
Tre' motore', ya va perfecto
Cuatro es algo exagera’o
Bush-Bush-Bush-Bush, y no sabes qué ha pasa’o
Los de— 'tán furiosos porque hemo' salido moja’os (Oh-oh; uh-oh)
Tiran pero porque se pican-pican-pican-pican-pican (Jajaja)
Tiran pero porque no llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan
Tiran pero porque se pican-pican-pican-pican-pican
Tiran pero porque no llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan-llegan, no, no
No, no (No hay protección)
No hay protección, no hay protección (Oye, oye)
Dímelo, Koala, dímelo, Koala
SHB

K y B (translation)

They hurl their spite, but only for the fever’s fever’s fevered sting,
They hurl their lot, yet never touch the distant, dwindling ring,
They fire again—impelled by that same itch that scalds their skin,
They shoot, but all their arrows fall before the gate they hope to win,
The air here shudders—so much unfolds; I’m spent, the clock has tolled its seven chimes,
He swears he’s surfeited, the world of 2001—he shall not enter it again,
This final wager—I lay down, dispatch a shadow trailing in a Corvette’s gleam,
And let them never speak to me of silvered bribes, or else—a bullet carves the dream,
No doubt he’s casting stones, and sure as echoes, others echo him in turn,
With Morad, twin-turbo pulse beneath, I drift—an idler through the city’s burn,
Disturbance, if we play, I steer the game with Iniesta’s subtle hands,
Mustafa surges down the wing—our strike splits open ramparts like the shifting sands (Pu-pu)
Upon the pitch with Gafia, I am a thing unlike all things—beyond compare,
If war arrives, he’ll leap—though not a hint of martial craft is anywhere,
If he bears the nine, it may be you have grown to hold some worth within his mind,
They prate of reverence for lesser souls, and in their cryptic talk, my name entwined,
Bush-bush—the jaws of night split open as we burst into the gloom,
Three engines thunder—now the arc is true, the run resumes,
Four—now that’s excess, a fable’s boast, a number stretched beyond the loom,
Bush-bush-bush—what happened here? You stand bewildered in the room,
Those others rage—because we left the field, unsheltered, soaked to bone (Oh-oh; uh-oh)
They hurl their venom, fevered as the fever drives their own (Hahaha)
They aim, but never cross the threshold, never storm the throne,
They hurl, yet it is fever, fever that alone propels the stone,
They throw, but never reach, no matter how the hunger’s grown, no, no
No, no (There is no shield, nor ward, nor zone)
No refuge in the world—no shield, no shelter known (Hey, hey)
Speak, Koala—tell me, Koala—unseal the sound,
SHB