Я написала "детройтский рэп в духе 90-х"

Поговорила тут с одним моим АТэшным другом и загорелась... написать рэп. 

Канон он мне подсказал.

Я написала стих примерно такого содержания:

"Поганое холодное семнадцатое июня - дождина, холодина, хреновое настроение и всё такое. Поганый мир, где упыри только наживаются и не дают нам жить, и всё такое прочее.

4 куплета и припев.

Пыталась писать на AmEn, но получился нифига не рэп - я в жизни рэпа не писала. Но смысл кое-какой собрала.

Потом пошла к роботу, producer от гугловского flowmusic, и говорю ему: "переведи это на чёрный сленг Детройта 1990-х, чтобы можно было читать рэп".

Хм, перевёл. Местами даже прикольно. (А местами мне пришлось разбираться, почему он именно так перевёл - я, честно скажу, не знаю Detroit Street Black AmEn).

Извиняюсь на некоторую обесцененную лексику, но 1) это - рэп, 2) в современном английском нет ненормативной лексики.

[Verse]
June 17th,  why I’m catchin’ the brick?
My flow ice-pick cold, this air thick and it’s sick.
Somebody at the board tryna play with the dial,
I’ma stash that thermometer, make it worth while.
Ashy-ass knuckles, nose lookin’ blue,
Nature got me bent, I’m finna come for the crew.
Scrapin’ the glass with a spoon in the whip,
Bout to find the clown who let the summer-time slip.
The OS is buggin’, the hardware is trash,
Find me the geek and I’m takin’ the cash.
The sky lookin’ heavy, a sub-zero trap,
I’m flippin’ the script, put the hood on the map.
Where the longest day at? It’s M.I.A.,
Locked in a dungeon, just fadin’ to grey.
The sun is a snitch and the light got a hitch,
Somebody find me that son of a bitch!

[Chorus]
Slide back to the void, take the frost with you, prick!
(Where to go)
Shove the clouds up your tail, I’m sick of the trick.
(Where to go)
Pack up your winter and bounce from the block,
(Where to go)
I’m boilin’ inside but the box got a lock.
(Where to go)

[Verse]
State-mandated rain? Man, fuck your decree.
I’m drippin’, I’m soaked, who’s laughin’ at me?
Iron bars on the unit, everything damp,
Caught in the crosshairs, a high-voltage camp.
The air is a bulb in a room with no vent,
Blindin’ and cold, all the energy spent.
The sun is a ghost, just a file in a rack,
Lost in the archives, we ain't gettin’ it back.
I’m shakin’ like leaves but I’m ready to scrap,
How you gonna freeze me? I’m all off the map.
June should be blazin’, the block should be hot,
But the man at the wheel is a thief on the lot.
He countin’ his stack while we catchin’ the flu,
He printin’ the bill and it’s comin’ for you.
Hands feel like stones, stiff as a corpse,
This ain't the mission, we toast on the coast!

[Chorus]
Slide back to the void, take the frost with you, prick!
(Where to go)
Shove the clouds up your tail, I’m sick of the trick.
(Where to go)
Pack up your winter and bounce from the block,
(Where to go)
I’m boilin’ inside but the box got a lock.
(Where to go)

[Verse]
Vultures in suits tradin’ lives for a dime,
They sharp as a blade, I’m the rhythm and rhyme.
They eatin’ off ash while we stuck in the mud,
I’m the judge and the jury, I’m checkin’ your blood.
Signin’ the papers in spit and in ink,
Sellin’ the babies before they can blink.
You war-monger cowards, go take a long hike,
Off a short-ass pier, man, I’m grippin’ the mic.
Go on a walkin’ erotic journey, fuck off,
You soft as a feather, you fake as the dawn.
You don’t feel the wind, you got heat in the floor,
While we in the streets, tryna kick in the door.
It’s a hustle, a scam, it’s a corporate play,
They waitin’ on winter to take it away!
You sold out the world for a piece of the pie,
Go rot in the dark where the light comes to die!

[Chorus]
Slide back to the void, take the frost with you, prick!
(Where to go)
Shove the clouds up your tail, I’m sick of the trick.
(Where to go)
Pack up your winter and bounce from the block,
(Where to go)
I’m boilin’ inside but the box got a lock.
(Where to go)

[Verse]
The signal is screamin’, my ears finna pop,
I’m huntin’ the devil, I’m not gonna stop.
No peace for the real, just noise in the brain,
I’m movin’ through traffic to dull out the pain.
No quiet in the hood, no peace in the mind,
Just a loud-ass reminder we all gettin’ lined.
The signal is trash and the frequency hurts,
I’m losin’ my grip in these government spurts.
But wait, there he go, with the switch in his hand,
I’ma bury his head in the cold, wet sand.
Man, fuck your horizon, fuck your forecast,
I’ll bundle you suits and I’ll make the heat last!
I’m done with the patience, I’m done with the cold,
The summer’s a lie that was bought and was sold!
I’m draggin’ the prick from the sky to the street,
And I ain't lettin’ go till we feelin’ the heat!

[Chorus]
Slide back to the void, take the frost with you, prick!
(Where to go)
Shove the clouds up your tail, I’m sick of the trick.
(Where to go)
Pack up your winter and bounce from the block,
(Where to go)
I’m boilin’ inside but the box got a lock.
(Where to go)

Я пыталась... хм... перевести это на русский, получилось очень плохо. Не по плечу мне. Попыталась изложить смысл (у нас нет соответствующего сленга/идиом, или я этого не знаю). 

Но тут, конечно, не только и не столько про холодное 17 июня. В основном про тех, кто, скажем мягко, наживается на отсутствии мира.