PAROLES
[Verse 1: Residente]
I’m a little uneasy as I keep an eye on the urban genre
Looking over, like a alligator in the Nile River
Adjusting a couple of pending accounts before Milo arrives
Sitting on a chair under an umbrella, in a tank top
With the dog biting my shoe
Burping out tortillas and tostadas with butter
Aiming at the horizon with a rifle without a scope
As I speak to myself like Don Quixote
With beer foam on the mustache
Waiting for these hot dogs to come out of their recording booths
Like a sprout, before their boat sinks
But just like always, the shit always comеs out
I’m ready to give it to thesе dumbasses until my cartridge runs out
Today I’ll knock down their marketing with a single pull
Just like we knocked down the statues of Christopher Columbus
I’m smashing this trash
Like a rocker in the 90s breaking their guitar
With Resi you shall get smeared
Even my verses turned into alcoholics because there are too many bars
I come from the heat
From Trujillo the drums sound in the street, ro-po-pom-pom
There is no discussion, even my brother Don
Knows that in rap there is only one King Kong
Sending fire, this is White Lion, there is no game
As in the times of Voltio and Tego
You and I are not the same
I don’t believe in celebrities from digital platforms
Nor in your whipped cream Billboards
Nor in your Instagram stories, Dolce&Gabbana, and Cartier
I only believe in my level
And in the coal of my pencil sliding over the paper
[Chorus: Residente]
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
[Post-Chorus: Residente]
Since I’m leaving now
I’ll take a couple with me before I go
[Verse 2: Residente]
Today I’m screwing the celebrity industry
Until I break my bed’s springs
And when my bars, I’ll fuck them with no pajamas
Vertical and horizontal, like a crossword
When it comes to diss tracks, I’m this era’s most feared one
For these losers, Spring isn’t multicolored anymore
Because wherever I throw a punchline, flowers stop growing
You are tier-five artists
That write less than a pen with no ink
When they see me, they break down
Pale white color like the fake teeth you put on
When the cap with an ‘R’ comes near
The entire stage begins to smell like a communal farm
Because these fake rappers become chickens
With my rhymes, as I impose discipline like China
My retina only sees heads rolling down the hill
The French Revolution with the guillotine
Burning showcases, I go to everything, I go to the top
With a bottle, a towel, and gasoline, like Palestine
I make it easy, like peeling tangerines
Comfortable, like a seat as it reclines
I’m Correa, Báez, and Lindor, a double play part of the routine
This isn’t Instagram, this is resolved in the recording booth
I kill them even with my left and right tied up
Singing nursery rhymes, jumping the rope
There is no break for me to lose
If I put you all in the blender, a shit smoothie will come out
For a two-minute song you have twenty songwriters
Even your managers are composers
Five hundred dollars for a ticket, misters
Just to be jumping like a dickhead dressed up in colors
The Auto-Tune and playback is on
These fools even sing with the mic off
You can’t be a leader, the champion of champions
If they’ve written all of your songs for you
A well-made hot dog is so delicious
The thing is that it wasn’t cooked by these liars
These lazy asses are greedy
They don’t even take the plate to your table and they still steal the servers’ tips
And they’re not ashamed, that’s what’s shameful
The bees make honey, but the bear eats it
You don’t buy respect for being talented
One thing is being an artist, the other is being famous
Ah, there needs to be a cleanse
A lot of delusion of grandeur, but barely any skills
This has just begun
And I’m still on my first beer
[Chorus: Residente]
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
[Post-Chorus: Residente]
Since I’m leaving now
I’ll take a couple with me before I go
[Interlude: Residente & Gabriel Cabra]
Gabriel, is it okay like that?
Mmm, the truth is that it’s shit, man
But if you throw at Balvin then I might like it
No, not Balvin, man
That asshole is just a chatterbox
Okay, let’s go
[Verse 3: Residente]
I’m going to downgrade to a chatterbox
That sings to SpongeBob and Pokemon
The copy of a clone, the Logan Paul of reggaetón
That is shittier than cumming without an erection
As they say around:
“Josecito, you have no streets in you, that’s why your knuckles are soft”
With just a video I could bury this sucker
And make him upload pictures with his dog
This coward, young lamb, is like a vegan breakfast: he has no eggs
The town is fighting, they’re killing them
And the man uploads picture of Ghandi praying
Stupid liar, he acts spiritual
Using mental health to sell a documentary
You are faker than a hot dog with no ketchup or bread
Faker than Luian’s abs
The man is so insecure
That he has to announce through Instagram how much money he earns
He doesn’t understand values in life
He has to get “loyal” tattooed because he forgets to be it
That imbecile with hair dye
Who put black women in dog chains around their necks
A whitey that has lost his way
So divine! Accepting his Afro-Latino award
One day, he said he decided he wanted to do reggaetón, to be honest
When he discovered Daddy Yankee was white
My key, the worst of everything and the most serious thing
Is that this asshole is racist and doesn’t realize it
History is going to slap you in the name of all those who picked cotton under abuse
And another slap in the name of all those who have had to battle twice within reggaeton
Myke Towers, Sech, ChocQuibTown, Rafa Pabön
Don Omar, Ozuna, Arcángel, Tego Calderón
They are a bunch that you thoughtlessly put under a drawer
In your colorful rainbow there is no brown
A sacrilege
This rich white boy still doesn’t understand fuckin’ privilege
But what would you expect from this loser?
Raised by his dad, a frustrated influencer
In Puerto Rico so that they’d give him respect in reggaetón
He swallowed more milk than a condom
For every ass he kissed, he jumped up a step
Every day covered in a different color, like a chameleon
What Ruben said, Resident holds his own
“Even if I change color, I will always know where I come from”
The chameleons are only out for their own belly button
They even befriend their enemies
Except for when it comes to a witness, business is business, partner, there are no friends in business
My thing isn’t business, we’re different
I put my heart out for music
My Billboards are held by my people
As well as my lyrics written on every banner to try to kick out a president
I’m not the most famous in the entire circuit
But I’ll demolish your favorite rapper in twenty minutes
What I said in “Calma Pueblo,” I repeat
With me, you eat even if you have no appetite
I’m not doing this to give you advice
Nor to abuse you, even if the competition is uneven
Today I’m skinning you
So the people buying the hot dog shirts feel stupid
This is for the guys
For the respect that everyone who writes deserves
The Formula 1 are now tourists, they no longer run
‘Cause I just broke the track, ah
[Chorus: Residente]
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
I’m doing this for fun
For fun, for fun
[Post-Chorus: Residente]
Since I’m leaving now
I’ll take a couple with me before I go
[Outro: Residente]
Well, I’ve taken him with me
