| For not believing in fathers we don’t know
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| Tell me can you blame us?
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| For not believing in fathers we don’t know
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| Tell me can you blame us?
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| Tell me can you blame us?
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| I had hate for my creator
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| Only used to see him in the paper
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| Mum tried to get me to stop stressing
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| Looking at the front door, wondering and guessing
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| Now there ain’t a thing that could make me forgive him
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| Once upon a time my dad asked me how old I was on my birthday
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| Man I thought he was kidding
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| After that I started moving different
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| I stopped ringing his phone and stopped wishing
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| Started swearing in school, started switching
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| Wanted to hit him
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| He played basketball and chased women instead of baby sitting
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| Or he’d drop me off down to Nicki’s
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| She played daddy whenever he was busy
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| I think I met her when I was around five
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| She was my dad’s girlfriend at the time
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| When I say at the time I mean that’s what I thought
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| Until I heard that he was seeing about-- five?
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| More disappointment, more lies
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| And every excuse was shit (shit)
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| Before he even got the job as a dad
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| It’s like he told my mum that he quit
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| When Nicki left there was no more trips
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| She was sitting down with them but that stopped quick
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| He was a div
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| All he ever did was visit me on birthdays and bring me gifts
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| Never raised me or taught me shit!
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| I guess I just looked like his kid
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| I gave up when my mum met another
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| Who introduced me to my step-brother
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| Both black but not quite the same colour
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| Still loved each other like we got the same mother
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| But then I started taking the mick
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| Running with Bad Boys, Notorious shit
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| P was the name on everybody’s lips
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| Rivals, girls and even the pigs
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| My fam was from Deptford living on Grove street
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| That’s how I got to know the OGs
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| I taught myself to stand on both feet
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| And hold my head higher than a nosebleed
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| First day of primary went to Deptford Green
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| Late detentions every day of the week
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| I got into trouble but never into weed
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| I was more into backing people’s beef
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| Athletic but never liked PE
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| Too busy reppin as a YGB
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| Year 9 rolling around with Little D
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| Picked up a hobby and started to MC
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| Skip a few years, 6310
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| Bluetoothing everybody on the weekend
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| Made a tune called «My Soldiers»
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| Mentioning so many names it reunited in the end
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| But still a bad boy of course
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| Of my own will, nobody is forced
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| It was all good, until I got caught
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| Aged fifteen, found myself in court
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| My fam was like «nah, this ain’t P»
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| I was about to do my GCSEs
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| Instead I’m in Camberwell with my solicitor
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| Talking about my not guilty plea
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| I didn’t know what was gonna happen
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| My three years in jail could’ve happened
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| And the case looked mad at the time
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| The only support I had was from my mum and Sharon
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| Thinking to myself «this shit’s fucked»
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| Had me on tag for the whole six months
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| I called my dad, sent him texts, left him voicemails
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| But the guy wouldn’t pick up
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| And there’s me thinking he would’ve fixed up
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| Then randomly out of the blue I got a text from him
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| Saying «it's gonna be alright, good luck»
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| Oh my days, what the fuck
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| You might as well say you don’t give a fuck
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| But luckily I got not guilty
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| The funny thing is I actually weren’t guilty
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| I could’ve been in jail aged fifteen
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| Cause this man weren’t around to guide me, you feel me?
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| Only my mum could’ve healed me
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| And you know what? |
| She done a good job
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| She trusted me to follow my dreams
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| Instead of forcing me to go get a job
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| I owe this life to my mum (Amen)
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| I owe this life to my mum (Amen)
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| And you can’t put a price on her love (Amen)
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| But the story gets worse believe me
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| I got violent, rude and greedy
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| But we’d be here all day
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| So I’ll save that for another CD
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| For not believing in fathers we don’t know
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| Tell me can you blame us?
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| For not believing in fathers we don’t know
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| Tell me can you blame us?
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| Tell me can you blame us? |