Le Bruit Qui Pense [English translation]

[Verse 1]

Yeah, This is the Arabian Panther, LH [Le Havre]

I don’t make social peace, I make war on the Devil

My prophet doesn’t come from a [Jacques] Audiard film

“Oh my God” is my mike’s nickname

I’m always under construction like the [French rapper] Demon One’s teeth

I’ve just got here, and already I’m a derivative

So I’ll rap for the switched-on with closed circuit brains

I fill their containers with my contents

Cos I’m told empty heads are Satan’s cooking pot

I’m rebooting our lives in Failsafe mode

Rebooting the [US rapper] Proof beat, so we can walk round all the ladders

Air force? Nope, force of words

I give recognition when it looks like [Two Face supervillain] Harvey Dent

Din Records bromance

For us Levi-Strauss is not a brand of jeans but an anthropologist

Methuselah’s not fashionable champagne

But a guy who put off getting acquainted with the chambers of the morgue

Don’t shake my hand if you’re only checking my pulse

I don’t trust medals, they can hang you with those

I gee you up when you’re in obvious crisis

I want to make out of Black and White a Grey Power behind the throne

I call out anyone who embroiders on a film

Who fights extremism with a witchfinder’s Koran

I’m going back to polishing my rhymes for the benefit of youth

Because fear is the genesis, just ask [TV cop] Véronique Genest

[Chorus] x2

What comes from the heart speaks to the heart, that’s what the fighters told me

I’m not a rocker, I’m a rapper made in Le Havre

I make a thinking noise, just a thinking noise

I make a thinking noise, Rap’s a thinking noise

[Verse 2]

The sacrosanct Republic has rejected us

I don’t want to be recruited, I want to go back to my studies yeah

Who cares, none of their plots can put a stop to us

You can be an influence outside of their Who’s Who

I swallow their single-use tolerance

I can understand people who decamp for the USA

My heart’s hard-wired on vinyl

When I’m talking about my part of town from the director’s cut

I live at the end of the thousand-mile line in a dead city

North Pole coloured, we’re squatting the Billboard [pop charts?]

I sell my book in the cornershop to Daoud

In concert in the stadia, in conference in the hood

I don’t want a Muslim burial area in the cemetery

I want to be filed among the authors useful to human beings

I come to deliver albums and books because someone has to, man

It’s coming out on Din Records and Because Urban