| Hold tight the Grime Reaper on productions, yeah
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| Big up my mum, my dad, my brother, my sister, Skepta
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| Serious
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| Hold tight Wiley, Boy Better Know
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| See I got bare labels phoning me but
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| Cash point ain’t showing me no love
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| Everyone’s got my tunes on their phone
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| And the CD in the PC at home
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| Is packed with all of the tunes that I’ve done
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| But my wallet, ain’t saying one
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| You think I’m making mad P
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| You’re right, my money is angry with me
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| It took me five years to get 10 A to C’s
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| But, in five days I get 10 AC’s
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| Somebody out there please tell me
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| What I’ma do with my uni degree?
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| I don’t want a job
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| Blud, I swear down, I just wanna be a big MC
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| Or something along them lines
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| Swear on my life, music means so much to me
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| Getting a degree to me is like a plan B
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| It will mean so much to my family
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| But understand me
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| JavaScript, makes me wanna swear like Plan B
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| I know it’ll come in handy
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| I stick with it, even when I get angry
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| And I’m not on my own
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| I got a brother in this music game like Brandy
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| He knows how much music means to me
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| We’re just trying to make money legally
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| I know guys that’ll creep in your house
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| Go upstairs, open a safe and steal a G
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| That sounds like quick P to me
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| But still, I travel on C2C
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| And WAGN, and Silverlink
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| Everything’s not what it seems to be
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| You think I’m stupid, move on
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| Stereotype me, I’ll prove you wrong
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| Ask anybody that knew me ages ago
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| They’ll say I had my head screwed on
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| «Yeah Jamie, that guy he’s cool
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| Trust me blud, he went to my school
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| He made me a ringtone once
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| It was like Eskimo mixed into old school»
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| To this day, I still ain’t changed
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| Jme, music in his veins
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| Same face, same deranged
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| Thoughts coming through the speaker each day
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| Mum still shouting, «Turn down the bass»
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| Bredrins lounging around the place
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| I don’t smoke but my room’s smoked out
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| Can’t see my hand in front of my face
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| As if I’m in a time capsule
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| My pockets are still filled with shrapnel
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| Only difference is, some of it’s Euros
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| I’ve been travelling, capital to capital
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| I’ve been 'nough countries I swear
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| One day I’ma write them all down
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| If you turn the clock back 2 years
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| I don’t think I’d have even left town
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| But still, I used to make hits
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| I was blessed with a lyrical art
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| The other MCs, they weren’t shit
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| But they come like lyrical farts
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| And they stunk, I used to hate them
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| See, nowadays, I rate them
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| Not 'cause I think that they’re down
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| But for simply sticking around
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| The bars I write, they’re like Red Bull
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| Trust blud, I got a whole shed full
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| Yeah, sometimes I can be a hothead
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| But, more time, my head’s cool
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| When I’m a hothead I don’t get lyrical
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| I get serious, lyrically physical
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| I start shouting stuff like, «Derkhead»
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| And people think it’s really cool
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| In the MC rank, I’m a piss-take
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| Yeah blud, I’m way before fifth place
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| Jme, everyone saw his face
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| See now, I’ve got about four mixtapes
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| Trust me, I know you’re playing 'em
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| And all of my lyrics, you’re saying 'em
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| Even your girl says, «Shh hut yuh muh»
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| There’s no escaping it’s blatant
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| Yo, blud, man better know
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| No one test with the dibby-dibby flow
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| Flow round here on the mic, I’m a pro
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| Professional in the game and you know
|
| All this war and clash is trash
|
| I’ll make a tune or bore some gash
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| Don’t get rude
|
| I said, don’t get rude
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| Or I will singe your 'tache
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| Yo, blud, stand over there
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| Dare, you, attempt to swear
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| Swear, down, I’ll burn your ear
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| 'Ear what blud you know I don’t even care
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| All this push out your chest is late
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| I did that in 1998
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| Don’t get rude, I said don’t get rude
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| Or I will phlegm in your face
|
| Derkhead, edition three |