R.U.I.N. - St.Hood [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

(Verse 1) (R.U.I.N.)
Ivory tower academic, you can expect him/
To have troubling looking in the mirror, learning to accept it/
See, cause I can read a book called ‘The Problem of Pain’/
That shows pain isn’t my problem at all, cause it truly ain’t/
My real problems are cowardice, privilege, and status/
I was born white but when I’m blamed for it, I just can’t stand it/
Our preliminary anguish/ begins with military language/
Expressing our sorrow to all those who can’t understand it/
Screaming at Heaven “What the Hell?!”, don’t ask what is hell? /
They living through it, their wish is at the bottom of the well/
So consider me a Goonie, not a Chris Columbus/
Cause I’ve seen poverty’s riches, they yearning for Justice/
At my life I am disgusted/ so blessed are the destitute/
Share a lot with the rest of you/ but we better learn
To discuss if/ we are the deadly dreaded discontents/
Of a civilization God never meant to exist/

(Hook) (Woodz)
Welcome to St.Hood/
Whether on the block or in a mansion, you know shit ain’t good/
Welcome to St.Hood/
Wonder if Heaven got a ghetto? Yup, its here so stay put /
Welcome to St.Hood/
Whether on the block or in a mansion, you know shit ain’t good/
Welcome to St.Hood/
Where Pains are lessons, and revolution brews life that tastes good/

(Verse 2) (Woodz)
Money is the motive, tax 'n' control'em/
Japedo is my homie, generation raised off hot dogs 'n' bologna/
‎Only hope in the lotto/
Ain't no such thing as starting from the bottom of the bottle uh/
But we still here/
Momma told me if u wanna stack the paper gotta get a career/
Only when I'm sober minded is my judgment clear/
And the media reminds me of what it looks like to live in fear/
Cops 'n' robbers, stocks 'n' Bala clavas, Iraq gun shot non stop gotta survive it
By any means necessary/
Fiends for the green no such thing as fighting fairly/
Hosting party as bohemian grove no joke/
United snakes don't play the game, they pave the road/
Two lanes with only one way to go
Maintain capital gain price tags on your soul.../

(Hook) (Woodz)

(Verse 3) (R.U.I.N.)
My Grandmother keeps sending us lottery tickets/
But that’s just a tax on the stupid and the Poverty stricken/
Imagine if 50 Million is what they’re giving away/
What they got in their pocket, from the shit that you play/
Grabbing your keys and coins to scratch up your Bingo cards/
Like their petitions to God/ to change your positional stars/
So look at all the people reading ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’/
They ain’t got time to study politics or know what’s NORAD/
Sometimes I feel like unions arguing over their payment/
Are just a bunch of slaves, talking about their wages/
So thank you McGuinty for my tuition discount/
Maybe I shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds me or take this route/
I fully understand that I’m in a privileged class/
But that don’t mean Capitalism was ever fit to last/
Or that my comfort, is an excuse for injustice/
So I desire the Kingdom of God, nothing else but this/

(Hook) (Woodz)