Manifeste

Akhenaton:
I carry the dirty habits of this land in my heart
It’s all good
And we’re 13% at your place
You’d love for us to go back, huh?
I’m stepping into the world of the wealthy
Slaps get lost in the mouths of the dandies
This ain't Candyland
No Gandhis here, kid
Just honest guys and crooks
France taxes the folks on welfare
Yeah, 10%, what do you think?
As for me, I work 50 for the state, you know
For the state of my rights
I’m one of its favorite whores
What? With 10% of this damn brain
It’s servitude in the blocks of Clervaux
Or our faces serving at McDonald's
There’s no rip-off that doesn’t get paid someday
The fifty-fifty turns into nothing
If you snitch, great facelift
Full of bling in Paris
In the Assembly, they ignore what’s happening on the streets
20% of my friends are getting high today
No more revolts in sight
What the hell does this power pay for calm?
On the field, football
This little kid wants it
But 99% fail and we all pray to God
We’re the only ones believing in Santa until we’re 30, man
80% of people carry the triple six within
Stepping on others’ faces
For a shady life and 300 guys
Own 50% of the world’s wealth
It’s normal, their puppets have a finger on a button
And this damn people grazes like sheep
At my place, the flame is 30%, wait
I’m doing the math, and that means
At least one in three guys we’ll have to take out
Debha on the menu tonight, kid, what do you say?
Peace in Marseille is over
We’re gonna light the fire
On this day after elections, I’m so scared for my people
We take the lead, boy, to muzzle the dogs
Ah, bitch of a life
Destined for too many historical chases, no
Mars Liberation Front, historical channel
Read in my eyes, too much resentment
Too big a heart
Too dumb, I’m not your singer
Killer of collaborators, whining poet
Stuck at the stake since kindergarten
Covered by the veil of maternal love
We forget that nothing is eternal
Neither your loved ones nor what’s in your pockets
I don’t give a damn about the harvest
They laugh when we hang bags

Akhenaton:
There’s no degree of inclination in my body
The tilt of my head
Is a direct response to the tilt of my heart

Shurik’N:
At the ball of the accused, my city reigns
Senile matron
Sickening, I scribble these lines on an old piece of paper

Akhenaton:
There’s no degree of inclination in my body
The tilt of my head
Is a direct response to the tilt of my heart

Shurik’N:
Bending the back, I don’t know
I won’t kneel down
I’ll stay proud in the name of my brothers
I seal these words with a seal of iron

Akhenaton:
There’s no degree of inclination in my body
The tilt of my head
Is a direct response to the tilt of my heart

Shurik’N:
My phrases always disturb around
Maybe I’ll stop the day when the ones
Elected in the second round stop playing deaf
I give my vision of things, not rosy
Dare to listen if you want
The prose is sometimes gloomy
What can I do?
My soul declaims what my eyes see
It’s what I love to do
It’s what I love to write, what I love to hear
True texts, about facts that make you want to give back
Don’t get me wrong
The madness ties my brain all year, tanned
I don’t lose sight of those who want to stretch me
Ready to zap, it’s better than surrendering
You shouldn’t have messed with us
You shouldn’t have thought we’d
Just stand there with our arms crossed
Sipping tea
When hate lasts like friendship
Tenacious, it persists, invites the ex-blacks to the dance floor
The letters jump
Pied-noirs and Italians swell the list
The cyst and times worsen
And if we don’t say it, who will?
And if we don’t write it, who will read it?
Who will remember it?
The worst part is we’re not sure it serves
Betraying would make me sick
Fleeing doesn’t exist
Too many people court Gégène
Sow the rot
On Mars for ten years, I wore this name with pride
Now, I hesitate to say it
Never did the thought cross my mind
Faded, the rose of the south wilts
Even Notre Dame cries
Under the heat, hearts wither
Always sweating on the forehead
The fear of the other gives wings
We feel less alone in plural
Head full of nothing
The fools fill out criminal ballots
They forget and then
The state enjoys, the youth play the bandits
Parents toil, wear out their lives
With a day job, a night job
One in three guys is aiming at me and it pisses me off
Think there’s more than a hundred
To whom I give a kiss
Who hide a knife in their sleeve
The suspicion now hangs
At any moment, on Saint Fe
A guy can greet me
Like: hey buddy, ciao bastard
Even hidden, the poor won’t get me
The pride of Hip Hop won’t be the shame of the country
I say it for real, but I cross my fingers
Hands too
I pray for the first time
That today’s whore becomes yesterday’s princess.