Usted buscó: don't make fool out of me (Inglés - Tagalo)

don't make a fool of me
huwag mo akong gawin tanga sa harap nila huwag mo na dagdagan oambubully nila sakin

don't make fun of me
gusto niyang magreklamo

dont make a fool out of me
huwag mong bilogin ulo ko

fool out of love
lokohin mo ako

people try to make fool of me
a love must hardship to burn hotter

the best out of me
ang pinakamahusay sa akin na bersyon

if you don't want to make fun of me, don't make fun of me
kung ayaw mong biruin ka huwag mo din akong biruin

ur confusing the fuck out of me
tinatawanan mo ako?

law just fascinates the shit out of me
law just fascinates the shit out of me.

your annoying the living hell out of me
your annoying the living hell out of me

don't make a fool of me! i knew what would be wrong with the waching machine, i worked in lundry before.
wag mo akong gawing tanga! alam ko kung ano ang magiging sira ng waching machine, nag trabaho ako sa lundry dati.

if this is the reason for you to join me, i know you won't get anything out of me because i don't have a worthwhile person for you.
kung ito lng naman rason para maging boyfriend mo ako, alam kung wala kang mapapala sa akin kasi wala akong kuwentang tao para sayo.

i tried to breastfeed maybe three times, then after that nothing, no milk came out of me.
sinubukan ko mag breastfeed maybe tatlong beses, then after that, wala ng lumabas na gatas sa akin.

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog