Yeah, Marseille
Should we believe in God before believing in ourselves?
Or vice versa, we are not the sons of Versailles
Money is not an end in itself
It's just a bed with silk sheets
And a hundred women who, addicted to champagne, ruin their livers
I've read the holy books about thirty times in search of faith
And I chose the religion, so respect this choice
I turned little Nicolas into a freak show
Masked like a Tuareg in a sandstorm
I'm leaving this rap game, it's a competition of clowns
The only concrete thing is that we're dying of thirst
Cops who reek of Sky investigate at night
Because stray bullets pierce the square
A man was killed by his trumpet of shrab
By Vlad's AK-47, he's dead
For about fifty soaps without his conquests knowing
And that's so sad that I'm freezing

The sun is black, we've lost all glimmer of hope
Lost sleep because bursts of gunfire echo at night
Just yesterday we found the lifeless body of a 17-year-old kid
Riddled with bullets, lying in a pool of blood
I dare not imagine the pain that families feel
We didn't bring our sons into the world for them to kill each other one day
They act tough but deep down they're less than they pretend
We are only the product of the environment they frequent
It's the real life that I sing
I put simple words on what the sample is trying to tell you
To hell with sales objectives
I chose to feed my mind rather than fill my belly
I will never stoop to do what the public demands
Rather die than write meaningless lyrics one day
Make shit for playlists and dance tracks
The violins play so I can piss in them
Say what I think, fuck French music

Fuck the fascists of France (brr)
When the human talks about doing good (han)
Balm on iron
This gold that dreams of making sky leads to war
I'm O.P, they might lose me
I wrote rhymes and thoughts, described the city of my fathers
I feel the devil among men, God in the desert
Me, born here because mine fled misery
As a child, I had dreams for them
It was a crime so instead of running I flew on the wings of eagles
They arrived in the neighborhood like in Fallujah
We didn't want to fight but return to Lollapalooza (that's it)
Open letter to all these bastards
Instead of those who pray, think of those who die on the sidewalks
As Michel Baldit said, "people have this attitude"
Pain no longer likes it when we slowly get used to it
We age, we get used to wearing black
We see our own assassinated when leaving the bar
Childhood friends in the ground, their sons caught in a war
Who tops, misery in the end only benefits the rich (only them)
They say, "it's the color", I say it's the prisms
Ten seconds of their news, I measure the contempt
I don't want to end up bitter about life and the jerks (I don't want)
Who vote for the guard who will shove the baton up their ass (it's him)
It's for this shred of respect that we fight
Bitter number 5, my ministry, bring out the bottle
The street gridlocked, the pact of brute sons
Paid by a flute son to shoot a son of a bitch
It's to muzzle the son of struggle
And not to see him rise but rejoice in the fucking noise of the fall
Deadly, tired that nothing changes
24 years old
We could have written "Born under the same star" now
And it would be the same
It's sad but it would be the same
You know it
IAM, the seventh artificer (brr)

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