Moussa - MHD

Un p’tit des quartiers Nord

Le p’tit qu’on kiff à mort

Un vrai talent la balle au pied, mais veut la street d’abord

Moussa se laisse engrener, c’qu’il préfère c’est zoner

Il veut l’statut d’Zé Pequeno mais sans finir comme Béné

Mauvaises fréquentation, le foot c'était sa passion

Il enchaîne les conneries, on l’voit plus trop à la maison

Changement d’attitude, première garde à vue

Une mère qui pleure le soir, son dernier fils est encore dans la rue

Dernier d’une grande famille, c’est ses frères qui tiennent le rrain-te

Aller-retour en prison, Moussa ne les voyait jamais

Un père restait trop silencieux, qui n’demandait qu'à Dieu de lui donner

enfants pieux

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Laisse tes soucis dehors

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Y’a Maman qui s’endort

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Hey, on ne vit qu’une fois, on ne meurt qu’une fois

Moussa ferme l’appart, peut-être la dernière fois

Les journées s’enchaînent, c’est toujours la même

Avec le quartier voisin, c’est toujours la guerre

Personne pour raisonner dans les deux camps ça parle de fierté

Les p’tits veulent s’en mêler, pour un rien des futilités

Des histoires inconnus, Moussa voulait la rue, ce soir la il aurait tout eu

C’est la bêtise de trop, personne pour stopper l’autre et quand la cible n’est

pas là les innocents en payent les pots

Des coups de feu retentissent, un quartier en larme

Ce soir Moussa rentrera pas

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Laisse tes soucis dehors

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Y’a Maman qui s’endort

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Laisse tes soucis dehors

Moussa, Moussa, Moussa

Y’a Maman qui s’endort

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

A little of the northern districts

The little one we love to death

A real talent with the ball on his feet, but wants the street first

Moussa lets himself mesh, what he prefers is to zone out

He wants the status of Zé Pequeno but without ending up like Béné

Bad attendance, football was his passion

He goes on bullshit, we don't see him at home anymore

Change of attitude, first police custody

A mother who cries at night, her youngest son is still on the street

Last of a large family, it is his brothers who hold the rrain-te

Round trip to prison, Moussa never saw them

A father remained too silent, who only asked God to give him

pious children

Musa, Musa, Musa

Leave your worries outside

Musa, Musa, Musa

There's Mom falling asleep

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Hey, you only live once, you only die once

Moussa closes the apartment, maybe the last time

The days follow one another, it's always the same

With the neighboring district, it's always war

No one to reason on both sides it's about pride

The little ones want to get involved, for nothing of trivialities

Unknown stories, Moussa wanted the street, tonight he would have had it all

It's stupidity too much, no one to stop the other and when the target is

not there the innocents pay the pots

Shots ring out, a neighborhood in tears

Tonight Moussa won't come home

Musa, Musa, Musa

Leave your worries outside

Musa, Musa, Musa

There's Mom falling asleep

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Musa, Musa, Musa

Leave your worries outside

Musa, Musa, Musa

There's Mom falling asleep

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala

Oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala, oulala