(eng) "Police" by NTM

Tue, 19 Nov 1996 20:56:09 +0100


(Kool Shen - Joey Starr/DJ's)

Police: your papers, i.d. check
A phrase that's become classic, get used to it.
But in the hoods,
The cops have abused power abuse once too much,
So now the air feels electric
So no respect, no pity
You're going to regret it:
Never through repression will you get peace
Soul peace, human respect.
But this humanist notion ceaseas to exist when they put on their uniform,
They fully believe in form, afraid to be out of norm.
Even worse if by their book your color is wrong,
In fact a gang, organized, hierarchical,
Protected by the ruling autority.
They have guns, but they use them wrong.
How can you be defending the state,
When you are a heavy alcoholic? Often a deep idiot
The perfect description, the prototype of the asshole
That's why they love their job
That's why they step out of place.
You won't hear us say 'fuck the police'
But instead a special 'fuck your mother' from the mothercountry of vice.
Mothermachine of braindead, mandated by Justice on whom I piss

They represent in no way the population,
What can I expect from the cop's laws?
For me it's just bullshit.
Look at me, I just have to pass near them,
The asshole becomes nervous:
"Oh, oh, police check, sir..."
Systematically they proceed,
Fealing my pockets, squeezing my balls
My only crime was to pass near them
A crime to their face of asshole.
Hunt the cops in the tunnels of the subway,
This is every night's dream of Joey Joe.
Give me bullets for the cops
Give me a gun ...

Just another forgotten file,
At the bottom of a drawer,
Because the order comes from high-up
Rotten at all levels,
You can't have a diplomat dealing coke
So they bury it up, they forget, bring in fake witnesses.
At the same time, some youth falls for a bit of hash
Sadly, I hear the public say:
"Look, I trust them"
Trust whom? Police, Justice... All mothers,
They are corrupt, they stink abuse;
I trust more the homeboys from my street, see?
No time to loose with empty words
Here's the deal:
Let's teach them a lesson to finally have our peace.

Up in 93, Seine Saint-Denis,
Chicago-bis, harbour of recedivists, mothercountry of vice,
I give you power, a keep ahead.
I transcent them, I play a game with
All the cops of France
Mercenaries in office at a proletarian militia,
They stink down the wind,
Too down-to-earth to temper or even diminish
The hereditary exuberance that's been here for so long
Pushing up prejudice
Stirring up animosity
Of even the smallest powder barril
Considered second rank by dignitaries
Of a government of couch-potatos
And of a justice too fake
To aprove off.
But sincerely, socially,
When it was still time
To take precautions;
Everything just went wrong, but how?
Never law-enforcement changes attitude
Allways out of place
I say, bad days ahead.
So, by the mothercountry of vice
Before we take daylight away from them:
Fuck the police.