Translation of the song lyrics La morte dei poeti - Dj Fastcut, Warez, Wiser

La morte dei poeti (original)

Oh dici sempre che vieni a Milano e poi non vieni mai
Io ti aspetto eccheccazzo
Diggity baby!
Per Fastcut la morte dei poeti
Guastaf3st3
Un abbraccio forte boys
Ay, diggity!
Lambrate nel posto
Oh, yeah, yeah
I do what I gotta do
Non sanno che fare in bocca mani
Han perso la mano e non spingono più
Vedi a furia di fare la manicure
Man a pay do and you may lose
Gin & Juice homie quale grey goose
Hai anche fatto money ma non sei cool
Bello il personaggio ma non sei tu
Dare avere, ma non rinfacciare
Se hai le palle tu non ritrattare
Sulle spalle pesi da portare
Dare avere money da contare
Tutti che han voglia di scappare
Parti, torni ed è tutto uguale
Più che il posto in cui non vuoi stare
Il problema sei tu e non lo vuoi accettare
FastCut, give me the mic
Scivolo sul beat con le pattine
Non ci servi se non hai cartine
Cosa prendi il mic salta le puntine
Ai morti i poeti sono nati i dealer
Son diversi ma fan la stessa fine
Tu che sei una pussy non puoi far le rime
Scivoli come quando c’ha le ballerine
C'è un filo che lega le poesie coi miei testi
Gli autori sono entrambi innamorati di una bad bitch
Metti a paragone le poesie coi miei testi
Vedi che in comune abbiamo la solita bad bitch
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
Noi siamo già poeti defunti, questo è scontato
Per questo penso che non si deva sprecare il tempo
Un giorno lascerò un ricordo a chi m’avrà ascoltato
Grazie al sangue che verso nelle rime che sto scrivendo
Ed è, come una grande partita a Monopoly
Dove non domini, ma non ci sta differenza morale
Tra ricchi e poveri, in quanto entrambi uomini
La c’era un sit comedy che
La si guarda comodi e
Guarda che vomiti se
Vedi le celebrity man
Questi si dicono re
Saltando tutti gli step
Ma non me sembra del rap, si presenta come cabaret
E vuoi vedere quanto cazzo spingo?
Il tuo ritratto è alquanto finto
Penso a come rapperà un giorno mio figlio
Se come il papà non avrà un appiglio
Ed è tardi, corro come bianconiglio petardi
No che non m’assottiglio, diamanti
Se guardi il cielo splendo tra gli astri
Con i miei bro saremo giganti
E me lo prometto fa la gavetta del bravo cadetto
Non ho capito perdona che hai detto?
Meglio se infili di fretta l’elmetto
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
Levati dalle palle viso pallido
Dal tuo sorrido squallido
Intanto rappo come d’incanto, sbando
Al terzo litro di vino bianco
Con quel sorriso che sa di magico
Da fine al regime tragico
Rotolo come una molotov a terra
Un piede nella fossa, l’altro nel campo di guerra
Cosa vuoi da me?
dimmi quello che pensi
C'è chi fa da se, non c'è chi ci fa da re
Schiaccio e fai Ka-boom
Se pensi di comprare diversi
Tipo un mc
prototipi gangsta
Conosco scompensi mentali
Reazioni a catena
Divulgazioni di opzioni in cancrena
Ho l’alma nera
Brò calispera
Mo s'è fatta sera, ho una brutta cera
Me la vedo nera
Mangiati la foglia che mangio la mela
Amo come adamo ed eva
Amo bleffare, compare, vederti twerkare
Per tutta quanta la sera
Guastafeste
Repellente per le vostre creste
Un martello per le vostre teste
Ingerisco persone in-digeste
Percepisco persone di-soneste
Non mi diverto in mezzo a tanta gente
Perchè l’ansia prende e tende
Colpi bassi, torna sui suoi passi
E tornerà sempre
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up

La morte dei poeti (translation)

Oh you always say that you come to Milan and then you never come
I'm waiting for you eccheccazzo
Diggity baby!
For Fastcut the death of poets
Faultf3st3
A big hug boys
Ay, diggity!
Lambrate in the place
Oh, yeah, yeah
I do what I gotta do
They don't know what to do in their mouths
They have lost their hand and no longer push
See by dint of doing the manicure
Man a pay do and you may lose
Gin & Juice homie which gray goose
You also made money but you are not cool
Nice character but it's not you
Give to have, but don't blame
If you have the balls, don't retract
Weights to carry on the shoulders
Give have money to count
All who want to escape
You leave, come back and everything is the same
More than the place you don't want to be
The problem is you and you don't want to accept it
FastCut, give me the mic
I slide on the beat with the flaps
We don't need you if you don't have maps
What you get the mic skips the pins
Dealers are born to the dead poets
They are different but they have the same end
You who are a pussy can't make rhymes
You slide like when there are dancers
There is a thread that binds poems to my texts
The writers are both in love with a bad bitch
Compare poems with my lyrics
You see we have the usual bad bitch in common
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
We are already deceased poets, this is taken for granted
This is why I think that time should not be wasted
One day I will leave a memory to those who have listened to me
Thanks to the blood I pour in the rhymes I'm writing
And it is, like a big game of Monopoly
Where you do not dominate, but there is no moral difference
Between rich and poor, as both men
There was a sit comedy that
It looks comfy and
Watch what you throw up if
See the celebrity men
These call themselves kings
Skipping all the steps
But it doesn't look like rap to me, it looks like cabaret
And you wanna see how the fuck I push?
Your portrait is somewhat fake
I think about how my son will rap one day
If like dad he won't have a foothold
And it's late, I run like firecrackers white rabbit
No I don't thin, diamonds
If you look at the sky I shine among the stars
With my bro we will be giants
And I promise me the ranks of a good cadet
I did not understand forgive what you said?
Better if you put on your helmet in a hurry
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
Piss off your pale face
From your squalid smile
Meanwhile, I rap as if by magic, disbanded
At the third liter of white wine
With that smile that tastes magical
From an end to the tragic regime
I roll like a Molotov cocktail on the ground
One foot in the pit, the other in the war field
What do you want from me?
tell me what you think
There are those who act by themselves, there are those who act as kings
Squeeze and do Ka-boom
If you plan to buy several
Like a mc
gangsta prototypes
I know mental disorders
Chain reactions
Disclosures of gangrenous options
I have a black alma
Brò calispera
It is now evening, I have a bad look
I see it black
Eat the leaf I eat the apple
I love like adam and eve
I love to bluff, buddy, to see you twerk
All through the evening
Mood breaker
Repellent for your ridges
A hammer for your heads
I ingest undigested people
I perceive di-soneste people
I don't enjoy myself among so many people
Because anxiety takes and tends
Low blows, retrace his steps
And it will always come back
All my real B-Boys, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real DJs, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real out-laws, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up
All my real motherfuckers, throw your hands up
Throw your hands up, throw your hands up