Текст песни: Rhyme Or Reason + перевод

Yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah yeah

(«What's your name?») Marshall

(«Who's your daddy?») I don’t have one

My mother reproduced like the komodo dragon

And had me on the back of a motorcycle, then crashed in

The side of loco-motive with rap, I’m

Loco, it’s like handing a psycho a loaded handgun

Michelangelo with a paint gun in a tantrum

'Bout to explode all over the canvas

Back with the Yoda of rap, «In a spasm

Your music usually has 'em

But waned for the game your enthusiasm it hasn’t

Follow you must, Rick Rubin my little Padawan.»

A Jedi in training, colossal brain and

Thoughts are entertainin'

But docile and impossible to explain and, I’m also vain and

Probably find a way to complain about a Picasso painting

Puke Skywalker, but sound like Chewbacca when I talk

Full of such blind rage I need a seein' eye dog

Can’t even find the page I was writing this rhyme on

Oh, it’s on the ram-page

Couldn’t see what I wrote, I write small

It says, «Ever since I drove a '79 Lincoln with whitewalls

Had a fire in my heart

And a dire desire to aspire to Die Hard.»

So as long as I’m on the clock, punching this time card

Hip-hop ain’t dying on my watch

Now sometimes when I’m sleepin'

She comes to me in my dreams

Is she taken? Is she mine?

Don’t got time, don’t care, don’t have two shits to give

Let me take you by the hand to promised land

And threaten everyone

'Cause there’s no rhyme or no reason for nothing

(«Now, what’s your name?») Marshall

(«Who's your daddy?») I don’t know him, but I wonder—

(«Is he rich like me?») Ha

(«Has he taken any time to show you what you need to live?»)

No, if he had

He wouldn’t have ended up in these rhymes on my pad

I wouldn’t be so mad, my attitude wouldn’t be so bad

Yeah, Dad, I’m the epitome and the prime

Example of what happens when the power of the rhyme

Falls into the wrong hands and

Makes you want to get up and start dancin'

Even if it is Charles Manson

Who just happens to be rappin', blue lights flashin'

Laughin' all the way to the bank, lampin' in my K-Mart mansion

I’m in the style department

With a pile in my cart, rippin' the aisle apart but

With great power comes

Absolutely no responsibility for content

Completely despondent and condescending

The king of nonsense and controversy is on a

Beat-killing spree, Your Honor

I must plead guilty, 'cause I sparked a revolution

Rebel without a cause who caused the evolution

Of rap, to take it to the next level, boost it

But several rebuked it, and whoever produced it

(«Hip-hop is the Devil’s music»)

Does that mean it belongs to me?

'Cause I just happen to be a white honky devil with two horns

That don’t honk but every time I speak you hear a beep

But lyrically I never hear a peep, not even a whisper

Rappers better stay clear of me, bitch, 'cause it’s the—

It’s the time of the season

When hate runs high

And this time, I won’t give it to you easy

When I take back what’s mine

With pleasured hands

And torture everyone, that is my plan

My job here isn’t done

'Cause there’s no rhyme or no reason for nothing

(«What's your name?») Shady

(«Who's your daddy?») I don’t give a fuck, but I wonder

(«Is he rich like me?») Doubt it, ha

(«Has he taken any time to show you what you need to live?»)

So, yeah, Dad—let's walk

Let’s have us a father-and-son talk

But I bet we wouldn’t probably get one block

Without me knocking your block off, this is all your fault

Maybe that’s why I’m so bananas I a-ppealed to all those walks

Of life, whoever had strife

Maybe that’s what dad and son talks are like

'Cause I related to the struggles of young America

When their fucking parents were unaware of their troubles

Now they’re rippin' out their fuckin' hair again, it’s hysterical

I chuckle as everybody bloodies their bare knuckles

Yeah, uh-oh, better beware, knuckle heads!

The sign of my hustle says:

«Don't knock, the door’s broken, it won’t lock

It might just fly open, get cold-cocked

You critics come to pay me a visit?

Misery loves company, please stay a minute!»

Kryptonite to a hypocrite

Zip your lip if you dish it but can’t take it

Too busy gettin' stoned in your glass house

To kick rocks, then you wonder why I lash out

Mr. Mathers as advertised on the flyers, so spread the word

'Cause I’m promoting my passion until I’m passed out

Completely brain-dead: Rain Man

Doing a Bankhead in a restraint chair

So, bitch, shoot me a look, it better be a blank stare

Or get shanked in the pancreas

I’m angrier than all eight other reindeer

Put together with Chief Keef 'cause I hate every fuckin' thang, yeah

Even this rhyme, bitch

And quit tryin' look for a fuckin' reason for it that ain’t there

But I still am a «Criminal!»

Ten-year-old degenerate grabbin' on my genitals!

The last Mathers LP done went diamond

This time I’m predicting this one will go emerald!

When will the madness end?

How can it when there’s no method to the pad and pen?

The only message that I have to send

Is: «Dad, I’m back at it again!»

Yeah… (Who's your daddy?)