Dead Players — Paroles et traduction des paroles de la chanson Fatman
La page contient les paroles et la traduction française de la chanson « Fatman » de Dead Players.
Paroles
Tunnel under burning skin and build a yard of boiling blood
I’m pointing up the screaming jets of boiling blubber soiling us
You’re pretty short of choices bruv and down with eight of minor trends
The spiral steps to loserville ignited in a firey breath
So would I leave whilst they wait tumbling
I’m a beast in case you were wondering
Just incase your encased in a rumbling earthquake, I bought a spade and a
plunger in
But I ain’t gonna dig that deep just to let you man in a bin bag breathe
Spread that powder, press that now star
See how far can a big bag reach
To the edge of human reasons spilling down the sides
Spit a stream of glue and sick, illusion dripping out my eyes
Bring a couple gallons of Chiraz and let me drown in wine
Master of a crowd of flies, one of many crowns of mine
See the rest, they’re hung from the ceiling
All set for a wondrous evening, leave in a deep blue sea be stranding
Move to the bank with somebody’s feeding
Each bar leaves somebody grieving, tear duct stains on a bright red floor
More lick of varnish, churned in the carnage
Earth in a jar in a hi-tec court
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Eggs and omelettes are like my runnies on this
So who’s been running the longest
You’re gonna need an orthodontist to knock your teeth out
The man who holds beats for hostage
And it’s all out war now, ready for the call out
Then I bring the fire to the foreground
To the riddim of the wall now, kick another door down
Got 'em on the shore looking worn out
Stomp on the beat like I own it, make you wanna jump out your seat now don’t it?
Talking about out grown it, blown it, bullet with the wrong components
I ain’t even tryna make words rhyme, got it on repeat now you heard me the
first time
Bruddas get blurred in the third eye
Me? I be chilling on the beach like my birth sign
Life line guillotine, refried chilli bean straight from the Philippines
Broad daylight but it’s still a dream, killer fiend dealing with a supreme
philistine
Chilling in a stretched out limousine, in a scene rolling with the weed and the
nicotine
Tryna keep it clean but you know the team, in it for the crack like Pete from
the Libertines
Shoulda been a DJ, cut 'em into pieces, feast on the replay
My lifes not a movie, it’s more like a film where everybody dies like D-Day
Yeah, yeah I know I probably shouldn’t say that but it beats that usual cliche
So you can rewind the rhyme for the playback but I’m tryna get my leg up
foshezay
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
(Jam Baxter)
Look, who fills your head full of conked out pensioners
Cobwebs, dentures and monged out replicas
Lecherous leaches, crack den regulars, festering flee pits, blood splattered
exodus
Yeah, guilty as charged
Shovelling them in while the waste guys works
I’ll be jamming at the back in the filthiest garms, on a tripped out rifle and
same brass coutch
What, they’re pissed cause I live life lucid
Dead off my demons, slip my nooses
Cliff dive into a riptide, heart in my windpipe
Sparking a king size zootage, what’s it been like since I booted?
Now your life plots been diluted and sold for a pence on a back street corner
Essential, spitting that midnight music
(Dabbla)
Choose your weapon, I’m a slice like a ginsu splitting MC’s in a second
When I squeeze it leaves an impression, nothing but (fire!) when I breeze in a
session
I be billing up cheese in the dress room, you be counting your P’s on your
fingers
I be doing what I need to get the job done, you be fronting on the beat 'bout
binges
Doors off hinges, foreigners talking in English, USAers coming like ninjas
Make it hot for you bitches, got them in stitches, can I get a (bup!
) and a witness
Coming to you live from the trenches, widen your senses
Got more column for your inches
(Dead Players!) all up in your old dears minges but thats not what the ting is
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players
Dead, Dead, Players
Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players
Traduction des paroles
Piétiner sur le rythme comme je le possède, vous donner envie de sauter de votre siège maintenant n'est-ce pas?
Parler de l'avoir cultivé, soufflé, balle avec les mauvais composants
Je ne suis même pas tryna faire des mots riment, Je l'ai sur la répétition maintenant vous m'avez entendu le
première fois
Bruddas obtenir floue dans le troisième œil
Moi? Je paralysant sur la plage comme mon signe astrologique
Guillotine de ligne de vie, haricot de piment frit directement des Philippines
En plein jour, mais il est encore un rêve, Démon tueur face à un suprême
philistin
Se détendre dans une limousine allongée, dans une scène roulant avec l'herbe et le
nicotine
Tryna garder propre, mais vous connaissez l'équipe, en elle pour le crack comme Pete de
libertin
J'aurais dû être DJ, les couper en morceaux, régaler le replay
Ma vie n'est pas un film, c'est plutôt un film où tout le monde meurt comme le Jour J.
Ouais, ouais je sais que je ne devrais probablement pas dire ça mais ça bat ce cliché habituel
Donc vous pouvez rembobiner la rime pour la lecture mais je suis tryna lève ma jambe
foshezay
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs, Les Joueurs
Morts, Morts, Joueurs
Mort, Mort, Mort, Mort, Les Joueurs
(Confiture Baxter)
Regardez, qui remplit votre tête pleine de retraités conked out
Toiles d'araignées, prothèses dentaires et répliques monged out
Les lixiviats lubriques, les habitués de la tanière de fissure, les fosses de fuite purulentes, le sang éclaboussé
exode
Ouais, coupable
Les pelleter pendant que les gars des déchets travaillent
Je vais brouiller à l'arrière dans les garms les plus sales, sur un fusil trébuché et
même coutch en laiton
Quoi, ils sont énervés parce que je vis la vie lucide
Mort de mes démons, Glisser mes tuyaux
Cliff plonger dans une riptide, le cœur dans ma trachée