Lyrics Archive

Talk With a Pen

Verse 1
I tend to talk with a pen/
Hoping one day it’ll lead to porches and Benz/
Distorting the trends/
Attack me?! I’ll do MORE than defend/
Act with caution in my court of law or you’ll morph into unfortunate men/
Yorkshire’s the when, where and how – for the force that I blend/
I’m awesome, I don’t fuck around with corgis and gems/
I fuck with Korgs and XP10s – stalking my den, rawkus or spent/
Smoking quarters, with all of my friends/
Shortness in breath, only awkward when I pause in a sen-
...
-tence/
I’m at death’s door, he’s just always not in/
Shipley for life…BITCH, whether across shores or in bed/
Any Southern Fairies hating it can fall in the Thames/
I draw the rawness from my pores like saunas with sweat/
So much on my mind...why am I getting it all off my chest?!/
Maul your defence, bend em over like the corners I tek/
You’re just a temp, gormless and sure to be left/
For orcs, sorcerers or flying saucers to get/
Pissed off, cos the only cheddar I got, I bought with my bread/
Successful British hip hop heads, are more or less plebs/
Morals are stretched, styles that are either boring or dead//

Verse 2
So fuck breaking America, I’d prefer to fix it/
I’m sick of dipshits getting their faces’ lifted/
Their basics twisted, their fakeness exists/
And is still the only reason I had to create a shit-list with;/
Numerous names, like students who aren’t using their brain/
Spending Mummy and Daddy’s money like it’s a dubious game/
Of trivial pursuits and they, can drop out, when it suits them - the gays/
Future changes but remains the same like soup of the day/
Perusing terrain, abusive nuisances queuing for pain/
Using pool sticks 'cross your head like 30s pupils and canes/
Untamed and flailing wildly like groupies boobies in rain/
Any dreams you had of making it have humorously waned/
I’m like letting petrol juice loose in some flames/
If my future’s anything less than super – YOU’LL GET THE BLAME/
You’re stupid and lame, as uncouth as the youth that’s in Staines/
I’m steadily building and revealing my lucrative gains/
Physical or meta-physical...unusual or same/
I’m bruising crews in boozers for a few quid in pay/
Kid your head in lyrically, leave my shoe in your brain/
Open mic emcees are like, “oh great...you fucking came”//

Verse 3
I’ll kill it with the third verse, a lyrical word hearse/
Fuck your jealousy, it’s not my fault your bird flirts/
It’s her search, you know that crazy chick shit – you’ve heard Church/
And I’ll treat her mouth like lollies and sherbert/
I’m sick of these fucking herberts, driving their third Merc/
Tryin to talk hip hop shit like; “yo, word urrrp”/
I’m dropping shit that makes my turd hurt – you perverts;/
Cradle snatching from the hands of the birth nurse/
In third person, I cast an ubsurd curse/
My words hurt like completely fucked up, reverse burps/
Failing that I’ll kill you and let the worms search/
Make you look stupid like Leeds night-life, wearing ubsurd shirts/
You concerned twerps burst first... I write poetry - call me Benjamin William Wordsworth/
Pro-ethic poetic nonsense that quenches your verse thirst/
And provides the same heat that leaves the germs burnt/
I work my arse off - I smoke well deserved herbs/
I'm lost in this game, like an Observer word search/
this ain't Detroit man...you won't get murdered/
But you'll damn sure get served by the Shipley Servers...

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