More songs by Benab
Description
Author: Benab
Composer: Prodweiler
Lyrics and translation
Original
Drop Fire on the track!
Ils sont dans la mala, mais ils ont wello.
Le rap, ça paye pas, à part sur le podium.
Et les petits dans la ville, ils se disent que dans la zik, ils font les sous.
Sans baraka, j'monte sur le podium, les poches pleines de trous. En full
Balenciaga, tant qu'Viano met les lettres.
Ça partage à dix un showcase, y a trois fentes dans la mallette. Ils vendent le rap pour des centimes, la mélo.
Ils font les mecs plombés dans le jean, ya wello.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello.
Les vrais blindés, ils sont pas dans le rap.
Ça marche sur le tapis rouge du sheitan. Un faux entourage qui veut tes gras.
Deux millions de vues, un cœur en panne. Mais faut jouer les riches, ça fait monter les chiffres.
Dans les clips, mets la kich, dans ce game, que des pitres.
Faut péter les gros featurings, c'est plus vendeur pour les majors. Et si les sons fuient, c'est juste de la com.
Ils vendent le rap pour des centimes, la mélo.
Ils font les mecs plombés dans le jean, ya wello.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello.
Ils sont dans la mala, mais ils ont wello. Le rap, ça paye pas, à part sur le podium.
Et les petits dans la ville, ils se disent que dans la zik, ils font les sous.
Sans baraka, j'monte sur le podium, les poches pleines de trous.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello
English translation
Drop Fire on the track!
They are in the mala, but they have wello.
Rap doesn't pay, except on the podium.
And the little ones in the city, they say to themselves that in the Zik, they make the money.
Without baraka, I go up on the podium, my pockets full of holes. In full
Balenciaga, as long as Viano puts the letters.
Ten people share a showcase, there are three slots in the case. They sell rap for pennies, melodrama.
They make guys heavy in jeans, ya wello.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello.
The real armored ones aren't into rap.
It works on the sheitan red carpet. A fake entourage who wants your fat.
Two million views, one broken heart. But you have to play rich, that makes the numbers go up.
In the clips, put on the kich, in this game, only clowns.
You have to blow up the big featurings, it's more sales for the majors. And if the sounds leak, it's just communication.
They sell rap for pennies, melodrama.
They make guys heavy in jeans, ya wello.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello.
They are in the mala, but they have wello. Rap doesn't pay, except on the podium.
And the little ones in the city, they say to themselves that in the Zik, they make the money.
Without baraka, I go up on the podium, my pockets full of holes.
Ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello, ya wello