Hamlet

Shakespeare Translated!

Funkified Shakespeare

Livin large or 86 it? That's got me wack:
Do I let some foo step to me?
When da Man's all up in my lunch,
or roll up on that candy-ass sucka,
and, by regulatin, pop a cap in dat ass?
The big Chill -
No mo serious beatdown, best be done
Pretendas wantin' to zero
Me out fo shizzle - that somethin sweet sweet
That you don't be frontin.

Stone Cold.
After mama done picked out my casket.
Will I be spinnin in my pine basket?
When I have ceased existin
What junk be jammin my flow?

There it is
Why you gets no luv,
Who gonna flip burger at McD's and drive da hoopty?
The scrub's dissin, the slob man's pissin,
The shanks from yo bitches, Five O draggin you,
Big Willy dissin you, an the snaps
From punks when you just want be chillin yo,

When you can just off yourself
With a saucy shiv? Why SHOULD you keep it real,
When you bad-trippin with all this shit rippin,
Only da fear dat it be worse after you done popped,
and the undiscoverd hood be a dead end
For all road dogs, stump yo ass good,
Keep you straight chillin in your skanky hood.
Not blazin off to some newjack crib?

I aint keepin it real,
And so all my bling-bling
Done got all greasy,
And all my mad phat plans
Done turned out sleezy,
And they just runnin on fumes, dig.

You know what I'm sayin?
Fly Ophelia! - Boo, when you give a shout out
Gots to have all my bad recognized.

Original

To be, or not to be; that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them.
To die, to sleep -
No more, and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to - 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.

To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause.

There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Soft you, now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

HAMLET, ACT III, SCENE I
A satirical translation of one of the most well known scenes from this magnificent play.

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