What
Don’t even cut that out if sounds sci-fi

Some write at Uni with pencils and erasers
Some write with bookies pens on court papers
Some write at Uni with pencils and erasers
Some write with bookies pens on back of court papers
Some are creative in Scotland
Some have Creative Scotland do it for them

Shite-bags
Everyone got bars
But don’t get me wrong
Recording a rap and a track is not a song
Shite-bags
Yeah you all rant a lot
You’re all talk
What the fuck am I doing

Shite-bags

I keep it movement
Coughing
Coughing flows
Keep it moving
Give me some Calpol
I’m in the cut like a scalpel
I just rip it rip it
Like a frog ya’ll tadpoles
Old school like buckets and hash yo
Used to get soap-bar off your ma yo
Used to get soap-bar off your ma yo
Magdalene
Now there ain’t much room
But I take mushrooms
Give me 1-up
Mario
You’re a bag of shite
And I don’t care if you write or type
I don’t like when you lie on mics
But they want to do grime
When there’s no connection or link in life
Southern expression and road-man hype
From drum n base and jungle has muddled your mind
You ever been yourself
Or mask each day with the drink as well
Have a wee smoke with time to kill
Cause you’re scared that time will come
And time does tell
Cunts claim time in jail
But real ones never use that to sell
Don’t put behind bars hard-talk and spraff
In doing that it’s braincells you lack
Let’s conduct a survey
Do you invest your own currency
Do you detest them that’s currently
Using art grants that’s Government funded
Quit begging with your hands out
Looking like Durga with your hands out
Too many Yes-men you can’t move
Done the same tune for the last ten years goof
Go get face tattoos
Hope you don’t die from that Xanax use
But still hear you taking all that too
In the valley of death
Yeah they all on blues
Fucking boo-hoo
Still cut about like knifing a shoe
Splitting three stipes or that Nike swoosh
Back spitting and deliver since they missing me troops
Like missionary groups got the speech of God
You’re pray
What I say gets points a-cross
Jesus rolled fat rocks
And hell’s the hotbox
All swingers like sage
No church in this part

Gardeloo
Stand on a gargoyle over the town
Gardeloo
I stand on a gargoyle over the town