Metaphor manipulator
Social commentator
Lyrical assassinator
Hit the ting and pass the vapour
. . .
And I just refilled the rizla paper
Long drag and I might take you on a journey later
I’m Bob Ross, I’m like a picture perfect picture painter
In Summer ‘06, I was just a babyfacer
Chiquita chaser
A classical articulator
I kept my nose out of the bullshit on the fucked estate I
Had to get out of it
To get caught up is ignorance
Postcode nonsense,
Black bag contents,
Black masks, black bats
South east accents
Don’t come around here
If you ain’t got no friends
Otherwise they could make
The necessary arrangements
Taking your phone
For their own entertainment
“I’ll lock you up, blud!”
As the boots cave your face in
Sixth form
Teenage
Prostrate
Pavement
Romero’s Dawn of the Benefit Claimants
. . .
Or, probably foxes fucking
A couple out clubbing
Walking into a mugging
That D600’s too nice for you
Plus you got nice shoes
So ya gonna get done in
Don’t ever get ideas above your station
Don’t forget: you’re here forever
That’s what the page read
And on November 23rd ‘17
I stopped saying that I’d do it for her
Now I’ma do it for me.
. . .
I got my pension sorted,
Zone 2 in South East, fam
I went and bought it
Jaguar, jet black
Tax returns reported
Yeah I might be Windrush
But I na get deported
Never supported but in spite of all the home life shit
I tried to sort it
There’s no warning when your whole life hits
Ready salted if you thought that I would lie down here
Life is just unfair
But I’ma get it sorted
‘Cause when you’re going through hell
Just keep going through it
Sometimes, I feel like Hemingway
But I could never do it
Like there’s a date with a needle coming, I’m a shoe-in
Sometimes it’s hard to grasp what it is I’m fucking doing
But Shona told me different,
I ain’t one to talk
When it comes to preconditions
I’ve seen everything I’ve worked for come to fruition
Blood survivor
Askari on a fucking mission
. . .
Stand and deliver
Hand on the trigger
Gunpowder riddim
. . .
I don’t pay rent, I ain’t got debts
The bailiffs don’t come round no more to make threats
You won’t see a fat chain adorning my neck
Daytona Rolex
or AMG spec
I’ve gone from homeless to
Shelling down sets
With a Roland SPDSX
Mek ya vex like Cornette
Wit genre roulette
The Temple, mic checks
Red mic and black sweats
I come fi play the game like Backgammon
DBP
Double six
False challenge
South of the River Thames
Born into damage
Mum played Beres,
And she played daddy
Til I came home, where nobody lives
No responsibilities, no wife, no kids
No family favourites
No tins at Christmas
It takes the biscuit
“Still watching?” Netflix
I wake up at 6
Work days I’m sick
On the tube flush with commuter armpits
I smoke to the roach
I hope I don’t choke
I spend my nights stoned
And my days in remiss
Money can’t buy you out of loneliness
Why flash the cash
Keep up appearances?
I don’t pop magnums,
I am the phantom
I’m in the background
With half a million quid
. . .
Stand and deliver
Hand on the trigger
Gunpowder riddim