Rit. We live on the limit, on the limit of madness Endless limit Sharpen the blades and you see/ MLibero is an adjective Kicks full of disdain beat the Neapolitans, with belts around their fists/ We live on the limit, on the limit of madness Endless limit Sharpen the blades and you see/ Free is an adjective Kicks full of disdain The Neapolitans scream The kingdom of the two Sicilies is infinite/ The anger of a people who do not accept limits The tricolor flag waves belonging against those who do not want a united country/ It sharpens the blades and scars the faces of those who have not understood that there is little air and you cannot breathe/ Children spit, they don't cry The look doesn't change, in the eyes the same stench as a sewer This pride doesn't melt, it always flows over this sheet / Call me a southerner and then we'll see who comes out with their legs whole from here The wind blows, the fire it lights this sint/ Beat in the thighs, flames from the speakers Come down here, show your balls: I don't know you/ Piscinola waits with hands clasped and the doors open Notes that break through the chest Scarves on the face and ready to hunt Locks locked: four locks Arrest warrants, suspended sentence This stuff weighs heavily and now it speaks too
[Pepp J One]
Armed toll collectors, cars stopped and brains melted inside The complaint is a waste of breath And for a dose how many mothers have been beaten/ We are the most criticized city in the whole of Italy. Campania has dedicated the crime newspaper to us/ We sharpen our blades but we are proud of it. Cutting our thoughts in the disgust of those who say "the southerner, the nation, the ruin"/ We are self-critical and in amid the limits we raise two flags / Honor of the country, love for Naples sets this era on fire / It was and remains Fuossera Searching for the spirit within the matter Wealth and misery And then whoever steals makes it a profession / It's not true Scream loudly for the deaf Kicks in mouth to those who offend the South I'll wait for you under the stage with a hundred beats of drums, blades in the throat: face them They scratch the rims Here no one negotiates and do the math / It's contacts between brothers and the wolf who pump the subs
[ Sir Fernandez]
*I tell you like my brother: we represent Naples, where the pavements make the cars shake*/ Where children flee before false guards Again: pregnant females, bathrooms, markets and smoking squares/ They leave them open accounts and ideas The state does not see: the system is born following real girls / Empty heads and full pockets The light goes out every evening Calls to brothers in prison and wives outside who hope The anger of those who see screams / Now let's raise the limits , counting the bruises Scooters who write the stories of the South / Poetry is raw and full of anger, now it's a hunt Pride marks faces, hears threats / A blade in hand Who's tearing up the account now It's one one, on the ground you are alone and looking for help. On you are signs and unworthy insults. A hand at the throat. At the head of a kingdom, they beat the Neapolitans.

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