I owe the song Thé à la Menthe by Nikkfurie/La Caution a debt because I think it is coincidentally one of the main reasons that people come to visit my blog by the same name. Although the song apparently figured prominently in the movie Ocean's Twelve, it was unknown to me at the time I started blogging. It occurred to me that if I ever found the lyrics, the least I could do is try to return the favor by translating them into English. This proved to be a more difficult project than it first appeared, because the lyrics are full of obscure (to me) French street slang. Nevertheless, in the hope of inspiring a better translation, I have printed my effort below. Any comments that will render the sense more justly will be greatly appreciated. I would also like to acknowledge a debt to wordreference and wiktionary as well as my more conventional Harrap's and Petit Robert.

I have translated the original lyrics as follows:

NIKKFURIE:

Boy, I remember Mrs. Nicole
A teacher who thought a raghead wasn't made for school!
I wore ragged velour, and red boots made of plastic,
A wool jacket, a t-shirt or some "Play-Basket".
The barber didn't even know that I existed!
However young and innocent, the snot on our noses with no Kleenex,
we squatted in the sandbox with our "Buds" and our ideas,
born to vandalize without even knowing it!
Our parents didn't have so we erred without having!
According to our neighbors, blatant racists, to put it best,
we were badly raised and their German shepherds better dressed!
Me, I don't believe it, and I never did
because parental is the only love that I ever had!
Thus for not loving myself, what puts me on the mend:
The virtues of "Naanaa" or some tea with mint!

HI-TEKK:

First generation slum, clandestine environment in a bar in Barbès:
tea with mint, couscous and tagines a la carte.
More scopitones for Mouloud and Said Abdullah.
With a dirty accent, no "Peace to you" said Hassan the athlete
originally from Algiers, from Hollywood to Tamanrasset.
More tea with mint, just bitter words!
Like a mental illness, I have a headache, I cavort
in stan-smith adidas, 501 jeans, it's O.K., I'm stuck with them.
Here, there's the assault, for a dozen more, there will be blood in the air.
This France tears me apart: an Arab is classed as a bandy-legged barbarian!
Fuck the culture of barbecue, steak and fast food!
In the bled, it's djellaba and sandals, from Oujda to Casablanca,
it's banal at the bottom of the city, I'm pissed and I don't give a shit.
It slashes at the base of my home; my pain and my joy are mingled
and that's all that remains of our cultural heritage.

NIKKFURIE:

An adolescence "Nastase and 501, Pento, funk cassettes and Daron in 505".
But as soon as the the word "Problem" comes with a capital P,
in the face of which all the world trembles or deceives!
After innocence, pessimism takes root
before incandescence, the right road bends,
I took his hand and my happiness cramped me,
along the lines of "only money and honor can make me real!"
But here, one can accuse you of things that if you did them, you would hang!
They need an Arab, a black, what you will, in short something concrete!
One is lucky never to be taken seriously . . .
Approach vice without ever going over the edge.
Modeling our long life on the flight of an angel . .
In school, we, vultures, against the albatross of Baudelaire!
One finds oneself in rap despite every real expectation . . .
The recipe: Sampler, pen, and tea with mint!