[bad word] 
You can’t rap my friend you’re white and you’re from Fulham

Please put down the mic there’s no way you can fool them

Don’t be stupid you wont get that far

Turn your back on Hip Hop [bad word] and go and play guitar

Verse 1

Of all the possibilities I ever coulda chosen

Supposing career wise I’d picked hip hop

Imagine all the tip top rappers’ bottom lips drop

Sittin there shocked that some other bloody [bad word] hot 

Dude with a mullet, bussin shorts wearing flip flops

Is spittin to a gathering lookin like a criss cross

Of fans lovin Prodigy, Kylie and Slipknot

Nearly coulda happened [bad word]  look at me I [bad word] not

Little Elliot, rhymes for the [bad word] of-it

If only he was ghetto mans maybe we would sell-a-bit

I tried hard to dig up the credentials

Even thought about putting gold in my dentals

An Anglo-Saxon with a broken accent

But rapper’s from Fulham get a strange reaction

So I said bye to rap, saw the issue at hand

Some guitar lessons later, formed my own band
 [bad word] 
Verse 2

Attention Seeking - how far should a man go?

Cut his ear off like Vincent Van Gogh?

Dash cash to the crowd so the venue scrambles

Turn my good life into a Babyshambles?
 [bad word] myself up real properly, like Pete Doherty

Cover of Heat I’m hot property

Everybody’s clockin’ me I own the crowd

Now I gotta link me up with a Girls Aloud

Next exchange vows now my pops is proud

There’s a nine on my cloud I’m as pleased - 

As I ever been bro, mans flash like Jose Mourinho

Women crave me like bottles of Pinot

Now I’ve got big I can fight photographers

Bang the obvious, please biographers

Spend currency til there aint none left

And when I need more I’ll fake my own death
 [bad word] 
Verse 3

Right now it’s just hit and miss, soon I’ll taste a bit of bliss

Bangin chicks at worst with looks like Jayne Middlemiss

Never doin’ hideous, it’s too bad for busi-ness

I spin when they grin with skin like Darth Sidious

Never out-riddle this, you’re all chattin gibberish

Verbal Diarrhoea so you’re never getting rid of this

I hear your retorts there’s All Sorts like liquorice

I can sense your bitterness, you wishin’ you written this
 [bad word]