Translation of the song lyrics Picasso - Jamaika, Branco

Picasso (original)

Tænker kun på at lav' k— (Grrr pow-pow!)
Velkommen til gadeplan — selv Picasso ka' ikk' male portrættet
Folk er sultne, det' walaal, der lægger stakken
Og min dudu laver lacag — jeg' på farten
Jah-a-ah
Velkommen til gadeplan — selv Picasso ka' ikk' male portrættet
Folk er sultne, det' walaal, der lægger stakken
Og mine' skejser laver skejser — jeg' på farten
Jah-a-ah, jah-a-ah
Hører, de snakker — der' så meget, de ved
Men hva' ved de om at ryk' en fucking stang og invester' den i en lejlighed?
Hva' ved de om, min datter aldrig mangler noget, aldrig mangler noget
nogensinde?
Ved de om, min bror han fik tolv år?
Jeg vill' ønsk', det var tolv pinde
Tolv år gjorde ham til en anden, blokken synker lig’som kviksand
Det' for sent, når den rammer dit baghoved og den exit gennem panden
Selv familien de si’r: «Du snakker til en død mand»
Orh-oh, orh-oh, den exit gennem panden
Velkommen til gadeplan — selv Picasso ka' ikk' male portrættet
Folk er sultne, det' walaal, der lægger stakken
Og min dudu laver lacag — jeg' på farten

Picasso (translation)

Only thinking about making k— (Grrr pow-pow!)
Welcome to street level — even Picasso can't paint the portrait
People are hungry, det' awalo who lays the stack
And my dudu makes laak — I' on the go
Yah-a-ah
Welcome to street level — even Picasso can't paint the portrait
People are hungry, det' awalo who lays the stack
And my girls are making girls — I'm on the go
Jah-a-ah, jah-a-ah
Hear, they talk — there's so much they know
But what do they know about pulling a fucking pole and investing it in an apartment?
What do they know, my daughter never lacks for anything, never lacks for anything
ever?
Do they know if my brother he turned twelve?
I wish it was twelve sticks
Twelve years made him a different person, the block sinks like quicksand
It's too late when it hits the back of your head and it exits through the forehead
Even the family they say: «You are talking to a dead man»
Orh-oh, orh-oh, that exit through the forehead
Welcome to street level — even Picasso can't paint the portrait
People are hungry, det' awalo who lays the stack
And my dudu makes laak — I' on the go