Learn Spanish with Rap Music with these 23 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)

Young Miko’s “WASSUP” is a bold, bilingual club anthem bursting with swagger and flirtation. The Puerto Rican rapper walks into the room shining with diamonds, pockets full of U-S-D, and zero fear of stealing the spotlight — or someone’s girlfriend. Over a bass-heavy beat she fires off cheeky questions (“Baby, ¿qué es la que hay?” / “So, what’s up?”) while bragging that her looks, cash, and charisma never get declined. It is a playful celebration of luxe nightlife: throwing money like confetti, pole-dancing tips at the ready, and flexing two phones on Do Not Disturb because business and pleasure are both booming.

Under the glossy surface sits a message of liberation and confidence. Young Miko owns her queer identity, flips traditional gender roles, and lets the world know she is the MVP who refuses drama. The song invites listeners to embrace their desires, enjoy the ride, and keep their heads high while others talk. In short, “WASSUP” is a feel-good reminder that if you look good, feel good, and pay in full — the night is yours to command.

Bori is 6ix9ine’s most personal confessional yet: over a dramatic rap beat laced with Lenier’s soulful voice, the rainbow-haired star rewinds to a childhood when Santa never came, shoes were a luxury, and a stick served as a microphone. Each lyric feels like a page torn from his diary, painting vivid scenes of family breakdown, empty breakfast tables, and a young dreamer determined to turn silence into song.

Fast forward to today and that “chamaquito del barrio” has become a “leyenda viva.” Fame and fortune arrive, but so do envy and doubt. Through it all, 6ix9ine keeps his feet on the ground, guided by a father who watches from above and fueled by a single prayer: health and blessings for his family. The track is ultimately a victory lap for resilience, showing listeners that with grit, gratitude, and a killer flow, pain can be remixed into power.

“No Me Conoce [Remix]” is a late-night reggaetón confession where Jhayco, J Balvin, and Bad Bunny toast to a woman who lives a thrilling double life. By day she is the picture of composure—ace student, flawless style, private Instagram. As soon as the sun goes down, the beat drops and she calls the shots: sneaking past watchful friends, silencing phone alerts, showing up to the club ready to dance, flirt, and break every rule she set for herself. The artists celebrate her freedom and sensual power, describing secret rendezvous that feel as addictive as “la 5-12,” Puerto Rican slang for a smooth, irresistible rum.

The chorus’ playful denial—“Se hace la que no me conoce” (“She acts like she doesn’t know me”)—adds a cat-and-mouse sparkle to the story. Everyone around might see a “niña buena,” but the singers know the truth: she enjoys bending her own halo, and they are more than willing accomplices. With sultry verses and swaggering ad-libs, the track paints nightlife as a world where identities blur, temptation wins, and the fun lies in keeping it all hush-hush until the next text after midnight.

Tú Me Dejaste De Querer blends flamenco emotion with urban rap swagger to capture that gut-punch moment when the person you love suddenly stops loving you back. C. Tangana’s lyrics paint a raw picture of abandoned devotion: he dressed to impress, stayed up for days, bet everything on the relationship, only to be met with indifference. The chorus hits like a chant of disbelief, repeating how she turned her back on him just when he needed her most, driving home the shock and pain of unexpected heartbreak.

What makes this song irresistible is the clash between a tough exterior and a fragile heart. Tangana admits he thought he was “el más cabrón” (the baddest guy around), yet he feels every beat of his hurting heart. Niño de Elche and La Húngara add flamenco grit and soulful wails, amplifying the drama while the beat keeps it modern and club-ready. The result is an anthem for anyone who has ever tried to act unfazed while secretly falling apart, reminding listeners that under the bravado, everyone bleeds the same in love.

Quevedo: BZRP Music Sessions #52 is a fast-paced postcard from an unforgettable night out. The lyrics paint the scene: Quevedo spots someone captivating under club lights, their lipstick shining in a champagne glass. One flirtatious look turns into hours of dancing, singing, and cruising through the city until sunrise. Between reggaeton rhythms and heart-thumping beats, he invites her to explore Buenos Aires, the Canary Islands, and every spur-of-the-moment adventure that could follow.

More than a party anthem, the song celebrates that electric chemistry when two people click instantly. Every line—whether it’s toasting bottles, sneaking away in an Uber, or promising a private “concert” for a kiss—shows how one magical night can feel endless. By dawn they are exhausted yet still craving a repeat, praying for a round two because, as Quevedo confesses, the nights without her duelen (hurt). The message is clear: hold on to the spark, dance like nobody’s watching, and chase the moments you never want to end.

BEBE is a steamy, Spanglish rap-meets-reggaetón tale in which 6ix9ine and Anuel AA play seductive antiheroes luring a bold woman away from her unappreciative boyfriend; throughout the track they brand her their diablita, a mischievous mix of beauty and devilish instinct who craves late-night drinks, wild intimacy, and the thrill of danger. With rapid-fire ra-ta-ta-ta refrains, references to guns, luxury brands, and Lucifer himself, the artists promise a life of passion, protection, and excessive pleasure while exposing the jealous, toxic edge beneath their bravado. The result is a provocative celebration of sexual freedom, power games, and Latin trap nightlife that blurs the line between love and obsession, casting loyalty aside in favor of raw desire and high-octane fantasy.

Picture this: a dimly lit room, clouds of smoke swirling above white sheets (the song title literally means “White Sheets”), and a narrator who cannot shake the memory of one electrifying romance. He still knows her favorite perfume, sketches her silhouette in his notebook, and covers the walls with her name. Every line bursts with sensual imagery as he pleads for “one last time” together, convinced that a single night of champagne, sangría, and passion could ease the ache that keeps him awake.

Yet beneath the steamy surface lies a raw confession of obsession and heartbreak. La Santa Grifa shows how intoxicating love can turn toxic: the speaker admits he became “alcoholic and a compulsive smoker,” feels enslaved by her spell, and calls himself both her “god” and her “punishment.” Even while accepting that they will eventually part ways, he is ready to let her “break his heart” again, grateful for any fleeting moment in her arms. The song blends desire, vulnerability, and self-destruction into one smoky, late-night confession where love feels like both a blessing and a curse.

“Normal” throws you straight into Morad’s neighborhood in L’Hospitalet, Barcelona, where sirens, tight budgets, and big dreams are part of the daily soundtrack. By repeating “Odio a los azules, también los picolo” (I hate the blues, I hate the cops), the rapper vents his distrust of the police while sketching the tough reality of youngsters who hustle for cash not to show off, but to feed the family and escape poverty. For Morad, watching friends run from officers, dive into risky jobs, or even cross the sea at 17 to support their mothers is, sadly, “normal.”

Yet the song is more than street angst. Morad also calls out fake online gangsters, praises his crew M.D.L.R as true family, and admits his own mood swings: sometimes focused on money, sometimes lost in thought, sometimes rapping into a mic that now puts food on the table. In short, “Normal” is a raw but upbeat reminder that survival, loyalty, and ambition can grow side by side in the concrete jungle—just don’t confuse real life with console-game fantasy.

Columbia paints the story of a young woman who returns to her island after a demanding year at Columbia University, craving nothing but sun-soaked freedom and nightlife thrills. Her only plan is to toast the summer with friends and dodge anything that smells like commitment—until an unexpected spark flares on the dance floor. Quevedo slips into the role of the stranger who catches her eye, turning her “no-strings” agenda upside down with flirty glances, nervous smiles, and kisses that accidentally slip out an I love you.

The song captures that bittersweet magic of a vacation fling: late-night reggaetón drives, sunrise beach walks, and whispered promises that probably expire in August. Both lovers know the clock is ticking, yet they keep making memories to replay when distance and real life kick back in. Beneath the carefree beat lies a tug-of-war between independence and vulnerability—a reminder that even the most guarded hearts can trip over love when the rhythm is right.

Párteme La Cara is the sound of loving someone so much it hurts in every possible way. C. Tangana and the husky voice of Mexican folk sensation Ed Maverick paint a picture of a man who would rather get punched in the face, handed another drag of a cigarette, or fed a comforting lie than confront the emptiness his ex left behind. Luxury cars, late-night toasts, and designer closets sparkle around him, yet each glittering image only underlines what is really missing: the person who took “all the things that matter” when they walked out the door.

Beneath the swagger, the song is a confession of vulnerability. The narrator is tired of always being on top, tired of showing off, and tired of words that do not heal. He swings between bravado and breakdown, celebrating at night and crying in the mornings, begging his ex to remember that he is still there whenever they might want to come back. “Párteme La Cara” captures the raw, relatable chaos of heartbreak—where pride, wealth, and even a “cadenón” around the neck cannot protect a fragile heart aching for one more chance.

“Háblame De Dinero” ("Talk to Me About Money") is a hard-hitting trap anthem where Hades66 and Cuban star Ovi make it crystal-clear that their world runs on cash, hustle, and fearlessness. Across pounding verses, they boast about stacking kilos of cash, luxury cars, designer watches, and an arsenal of firepower that keeps enemies at bay. The recurring hook — “A mí háblame de dinero, porque si no no te entiendo” — turns money into the only language that matters; if you’re not speaking profits, they simply can’t hear you.

Beyond the bravado, the song sketches a vivid picture of street entrepreneurship: weighing product, dodging threats, and turning danger into opportunity. Hades66, representing her Greek roots while flowing effortlessly in Spanish, teams up with Ovi to celebrate cross-continental hustle and unbreakable loyalty to their crew. The message is loud and defiant: they’re not selling out, they’re leveling up, and anyone doubting their rise is living in the wrong world.

“LA CAPI” is Myke Towers’ high-octane love letter to a woman so captivating that she becomes the “final level” of his game. The Puerto Rican rapper paints her as one-of-a-kind: intellectual without glasses, radiant without trying, and powerful enough to make him lose focus the second her name is mentioned. Between clinking bottles and a still-aching heart, he dreams of jet-setting to her capital city, tasting her country’s flavor, and turning travel into an intimate treasure hunt.

The song bounces between braggadocio and vulnerability. Towers flexes fame and luxury––stuffed animals, Ferrero chocolates, fulfilled fantasies––yet admits he would drop the spotlight if it meant winning her love. He imagines freezing time just to stay with her, vows not to lose faith, and turns every line into a mix of prayer and promise. In short, “LA CAPI” is a rhythmic thrill ride about obsession, adventure, and the hope that true love can outshine even the brightest stage lights.

Picture a night where the bass is thumping, the champagne is popping and the clock seems useless. In BZRP Music Sessions #52, Bizarrap teams up with Spanish rapper Quevedo to capture that electric moment when two strangers lock eyes in a club and decide the party will revolve around them. From sliding across the dance floor at 1 a.m. to watching the sunrise before crashing at 10, the lyrics celebrate an instant connection powered by reggaetón, urban glamour and a dash of Buenos Aires charm.

Beneath the playful swagger, there is a sincere craving for more than just a one-night fiesta. The narrator’s heartbeat drowns out clinking glasses, nights without her duelen — they hurt — and every memory of moves and whispers lingers long after the music fades. Promises of trips to the Canary Islands, private “concerts,” and prayers to the heavens show that this chemistry could turn into something lasting. The song is a soundtrack for anyone who has ever wished an unforgettable night could loop on repeat.

Imperio is a lavish love-letter where Argentine trap star Duki and Spanish singer Judeline picture their romance as something colossal. Duki vows to build an empire and even a castillo de nubes – a castle made of clouds – so their connection can float freely like waves. He promises loyalty that “God can hear,” flies across the planet for her, and admires her beauty as if it were more valuable than the Louvre’s treasures. Judeline answers with equal devotion, calling his mouth her home and racing through the sky whenever he feels low. Together they dream of balconies with flowers, nights spent singing to the stars, and a life of luxurious intimacy carved out for just the two of them.

Beyond the love story, the track is a manifesto of artistic independence and self-belief. Duki celebrates being autodidact, turning beats into gold, and creating “portals” that anyone brave enough can travel through. He dismisses social-media pretenders, trusts his small circle, and acknowledges a divine plan guiding his meteoric rise. At only 21, he is crafting a kingdom of music and ambition, and with Judeline beside him the future looks “maravilloso.” The result is a song that blends romantic fantasy with hustler confidence, inviting listeners to dream big, love hard, and build their own imperio.

Play "Mírame Ma" and you are instantly teleported to a sweaty club where neon lights bounce off gold chains and no one can stand still. Mexican rapper Alemán teams up with Spanish hit-maker Rels B to deliver a reggaetón-trap anthem that is all about swagger, flirtation, and losing yourself on the dance floor. The hook “Ay, ay, mírame, mami, estilo cabrón” is a playful command: Look at me, girl, check my killer style. Every verse circles around the thrill of dancing so hard you step on someone’s shoes, the adrenaline of a packed venue, and the cheeky confidence that comes with living la vida loca from Mexico to Mallorca.

Behind the party vibe there is a celebration of freedom—modern Latin culture, shared moments with friends, and the joy of good weed, bass-heavy speakers, and unfiltered fun. The lyrics flex success and street credibility, yet they never stop inviting the listener to join the fiesta. If you want a soundtrack that screams “turn up the volume, forget your worries, and move like an animal,” this track is it.

Bizarrap Music Sessions Vol. 59 throws Mexican trailblazer Natanael Cano into the legendary BZRP booth, creating a cross-border rap that blends corridos tumbados swagger with trap-heavy beats. From the very first line, Cano paints himself endiamantado (covered in diamonds) and volado (sky-high), parading luxury cars, dry rosé, custom AR-15s, and worldwide jet getaways. The verses feel like an action-packed montage: Rafa Caro name-drops, Lil Wayne-style tattoos, Frank Sinatra charm on Buenos Aires’ 9 de Julio Avenue, and the ghost of tango icon Gardel all flash by at high speed. The message is loud and glittering – the artist has climbed to the top and he is enjoying every expensive second of it.

Beneath the bling, though, lies a gritty backstory. Cano reminds listeners of betrayals, government heat, and money burned faster than it was earned. The diamond-studded crucifix on his chest hints at faith as both protection and ornament, symbolizing how survival and excess coexist in his world. In short, Session 59 is a victory lap that celebrates hustle, resilience, and the unapologetic thrill of living recios – fast, fearless, and forever shining.

Un Día Todo Se Termina paints a vivid picture of street life in Mexico where every day can feel like your last. Tornillo mixes gritty neighborhood pride with an almost playful conversation with Death, reminding us that "one day everything ends and Death never comes back." Between shouts of loyalty to his vecindario and memories of growing up among "locos, cholos, psicos," the rapper urges listeners to love fiercely, live loudly, and take risks while they still can.

Beneath the tough talk and booming beat lies a surprisingly life-affirming message: we are all "polvo" in the end, so make your moments count. Whether he is lighting a candle for fallen friends, sharing a smoke in their honor, or warning rivals not to test his crew, Tornillo balances danger with celebration. The result is an anthem that feels both raw and reflective, a reminder that even in the roughest barrios you can still choose passion, loyalty, and joy before the final curtain falls.

Mala Suerte ("Bad Luck") lets Argentina’s trap queen Cazzu pull back the curtain on her bravado and show us the vulnerable heart that beats underneath. Over a moody beat, she repeats the aching hook "Tengo miedo de perderte" (“I’m afraid of losing you”), confessing that for her, love is a thrilling ride haunted by the constant fear of crashing. She pictures nightmare scenarios—her lover finding someone “better,” forgetting every kiss, every memory—because she believes she was “born with so much bad luck.”

Cazzu’s lyrics flicker between smoky barrooms, limousine doors, and lovers who left scars. Those memories make her doubt her own worth, yet they also fuel a desperate, fiery plea: “Dame tu calor, que traigo el alma fría” (“Give me your warmth, my soul is cold”). The song is both a confession and a wish—she wants to shake off her “mala suerte,” pull her partner close, and shout their love so loudly that even the heavens listen. In short, it’s a raw, diary-like anthem about insecurity, past wounds, and the hope that real love can finally break an unlucky streak.

La Bruja whisks us into the misty, moonlit world of Mexican folklore, where witches roam the skies at two in the morning and the line between fear and fascination blurs. Instead of a sinister villain, this witch is playful and alluring. She sweeps the singer off his feet, showers him with flowers, bathes him in fragrant smoke, and turns him into a colorful bouquet. Every image pulses with the vibrant spirit of Veracruz’s son jarocho tradition, blending the thrill of the supernatural with the romance of a late-night serenade.

At its heart, the song is a teasing dance between danger and desire. The famous question “¿Cuántas criaturitas se ha chupado usted?” nods to old legends of witches who drain life from the innocent, yet the answer flips the myth on its head: “None… but I have my eyes on you.” Rather than warning listeners away, La Bruja invites them to surrender to mystery, celebrate feminine power, and revel in the magic that sparks when fear turns into flirtation.

“Nada” is a fiery back-and-forth that turns a broken relationship into a musical tug-of-war. Cazzu and her all-star guests slip into the roles of ex-lovers who swear they feel “nada” — nothing at all — yet every lyric drips with leftover passion. Between pulsing reggaetón beats, each vocalist tries to convince the other (and themselves) that they have moved on: Cazzu flaunts her favorite dress, Rauw and Dalex trade bruised bragging rights, and Lyanno fans the jealousy by promising to give her what the last guy couldn’t. The song paints a neon-lit scene of clubs, social-media stalking, late-night calls, and risky rebounds, showing how pride and desire keep exes orbiting each other even after love is “buried.”

At its core, “Nada” captures the messy stage after a breakup when both sides pretend to be indifferent while secretly aching — a mix of resentment, temptation, and wounded ego. Each verse is a playful jab, each chorus a catchy reminder that saying you feel nothing doesn’t make it true. The result is an addictive anthem for anyone who has ever tried to dance away their feelings, only to realize that nada can still mean everything.

Gritty and unapologetic, "Un Dia Todo Se Termina Remix" drops you straight into the night streets of Mexico where sirens mingle with booming bass. Tornillo teams up with Santa Fe Klan to paint a vivid picture of barrio life: guns flashing, motorcycles roaring and shadows trading glances with the reaper. The hook reminds us that one day everything ends and death never comes back, so the rappers charge forward, fearless and fully aware that each verse could be their last. Their lines bounce between bravado and vulnerability, celebrating loyalty to the crew while admitting that the reaper is always lurking around the corner.

Key ideas to listen for:

• The inevitability of death – nobody escapes “la calavera,” so the only option is to live loud and proud today.
• Neighborhood pride – the artists wear their city code like armor and warn outsiders not to meddle with their “locos del barrio.”
• Raw survival – drugs, betrayal and shoot-outs soundtrack their daily grind, yet they refuse to back down.
• Hidden wisdom – amid the chaos, a heartfelt reminder surfaces: love the people you care about, because one day we all turn to dust.

As the remix storms through its verses, you will feel both the danger and the defiant joy of choosing to dance with death rather than run from it.

Delivery is a high-octane rap tale in which Mexican MC Alemán, joined by breakout star Peso Pluma, pulls you straight into the adrenaline-charged world of drug trafficking. Bar after bar, they brag about moving kilos “para Estados Unidos,” dodging bullets with a ski mask, and rocking designer brands while the cash keeps flowing. The repeated hook “Mucho criminal, todo es coludido” paints a picture of an underworld where everyone is in on the game, from street hustlers to those in power, and quitting is never an option.

Behind the flashy watches and private jets, the song also hints at harsh realities: danger is constant, trust is rare, and success often means risking it all. Yet, the rappers celebrate their ability to deliver—no matter the obstacles—portraying themselves as modern outlaw entrepreneurs who thrive on nerve, loyalty, and swagger. "Delivery" is both a boastful victory lap and a gritty snapshot of a lucrative but perilous hustle that never sleeps.

Luck Ra invites us into a raw, late-night confession room where rap meets heartbreak. Ya No Vuelvas feels like reading the last pages of a love story that refuses to end: the beat is steady, but the emotions are spiraling. With a voice that carries both exhaustion and defiance, the Argentine artist repeats a simple order, “Ya no vuelvas” — “Don’t come back.” Every line drips with the frustration of someone who has counted their apologies and finally run out.

The song flips between fragile hope and cold resignation. He admits he would pretend everything is fine, even let himself be hurt again, yet in the same breath he demands the return of all the time and love he invested. This contradiction captures the messy truth of toxic relationships: wanting distance but craving closure, swearing you have moved on while secretly replaying memories. Luck Ra’s verses turn that tug-of-war into a catchy, cathartic anthem for anyone who has ever loved someone who couldn’t love them back.