1. |
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This is not a bodge job or hodgepodge with masking tape, some off-cuts
This is whole-hog, this is nine yards by an old fart that just let off
There were wrong turns and wrong urges, energies ended up as embers
There were unfocused vocals that lacked potent measures
There were half written, dog bitten, scraps on backs of napkins
There are voice notes on my old phones broken sat in landfills
There were young pups that rose up while rhymes lay in a printer
This was well jell, well worn, scornful as they got bigger
There were false starts and put offs till I couldn’t look in the mirror
There was sod this, I’ve got this, a gob to be a spitter
This is full throttle, takes full bottle not to dislodge momentum
This is flat-oot with me balls oot before grey hairs start to scare ya.
This is outpour, this is off chest, box of confessional tit-bits
This is not the time to check the time, twiddle thumbs or regress
This is late starter, late bloomer, no restraint if I came sooner
This is gen x from the rave sesh, so why you call me boomer?
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
This is not a half-arsed, hobby horse that I can’t be fucked to saddle-up
This is thoroughbred, run-ahead, left in the dust, those catching up
This is peel back, reveal that skin retracted with no redactions
This isn’t cack-handed, mislanded like I fell back and stood in cat shit
These fine lines and waist line say I’ve been aging like fine wine
These nose hairs grow wild but I trim lines so they flow right
These crows feet have flown trees, seen things in perspective
These old bones moan in monotone but can pitch things up an octave
There was out of time out of breath open mics with broken vibes
There were forgotten words, forgot a verse, red faced and severed verbs
There's been kyboshed write-offs abandoned plans that didn’t happen
There's been chat shit, I’m doing this, lots of blabbing not much action
This is re-edit, repurpose not rehashing those bad habits
This re-cording is rewarding, I can ill afford to be crap at it
This is rehearsed not reversed not polishing a turd for my inner circle
This is relaunch, reopen, show my personal is universal.
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
This is not a passing whim, done willy nilly not gassing on nor dilly dally
This is mash-up not mish-mash, flavors mixed like plates of thali
This isn’t loosey goosey, produced poorly, Figarate tunes are rather hearty
This is brace brace, up in your face, wait edge of seat for grand finale
This isn’t half empty, it’s half full, got plenty more bars I can gargle
This is overcome not overrun or run and hide like last debacle
There were mic-blags as a young lad, didn’t deserve a turn hadn’t earned that
There was blah-blah, claptrap, rapping things that hadn’t happened.
There was listen here, right near, Mc’ing in ears for forced approval
There were colabs I romanced; played so little to contribution
This is new error, way better, best get to it before I get dementia
This is skin sag, chin flab best grab that mic before I cash a pension
This is tying nooses on old excuses, writing life inspiring blueprints
This is flowing juices not blowing fuses, spark my truth set to music
This is last saloon for an old crooner, I’m anyones Fry call me Bueller
This is my last stages at Last Vegas, I’ll belt one out now like a trooper.
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
Hey Granddad stand back from the mic stand
Hey Granddad stand back, fuck that!
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2. |
Rise of the Idiots
03:56
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Don’t strain my faith with your make believe
Won’t you break kayfabe from the fake physique?
Bulldoze the 4th wall, to see your warts and all
Instead of just a fable in the final fall?
You Pad out your bullshit with a spit shine,
Textbook bullshit full without a spine
I want a rhyme not a shrine to rich trinkets
I want to hear your life, not lies or dink gimmicks.
Rise up the ranks of imagination
Delete old tropes you’ve been cutting and pasting
Don’t rephrase clichés to erase the real you
Reveal an awkward truth like Louis Theroux
Experiment with the inkwell. Offset your calligraphy
Instead you went all wet with shallow-ended pageantry,
Scantly dressed lies won’t wash no more
Try and stitch the fabric of the magic that you tore.
You couldn’t muster a lackluster lullaby
I’m nonplussed by your null and void
Ride on the bus you’re not qualified
to drive with us, time to pull aside s
Four pillars, you made one crumble,
crushed under weight of numbing mumbles
sadly abandoned actual vernacular
flaccid soul sucked fangs of Dracula
Went from hollow to Monosyllabic Babble
Like an alcoholic ramble Its tragic
we’re meant to follow actual talent
not let the hop get dismantled
don’t let the Rape the kill appraisal
make kids feel equates a skill
or threats with mates to play the drill
cos death’s not great when its real.
You’re The rise of the idiot, A bastardised remake
Took nothing from something and created a piss take
Of what you tasted like, don't taste like you used to
Take pride in your past or you’ll puke up your future
Your suit was shiny but your lining was so empty
I gave up buying cos you meaning up and left me.
I wanted bars laced with poison, all killer, filler free –
Moistened lips on the trigger of a rhyming spree
Your cadence made it when you spoke in broken code
Now I’ve lost patience with the way you clear your throat
Unfolded bold statements hold up like a hoax
no pride in the snide stereotypes you invoke
And I’d rather be an old fool with old skool flesh
Than masked like tags on an old school desk
Or hear your auto-tune squeal and stretch
Wanna ingest a real tale like a breath of fresh
Cos this glut of substances lacks much substance.
Words cut abruptly with track mark abundance
By Indulging grunts of an offspring youngster
estrange this phase and revive the wonder.
You couldn’t muster a lackluster lullaby
I’m nonplussed by your null and void
Ride on the bus you’re not qualified
to drive with us, time to pull aside s
Four pillars, you made one crumble,
crushed under weight of numbing mumbles
sadly abandoned actual vernacular
flaccid soul sucked fangs of Dracula
Went from hollow to Monosyllabic Babble
Like an alcoholic ramble Its tragic
we’re meant to follow actual talent
not let the hop get dismantled
don’t let the Rape the kill appraisal
make kids feel equates a skill
or threats with mates to play the drill
cos death’s not great when its real.
You’re The rise of the idiot, A bastardised remake
Took nothing from something and created a piss take
Of what you tasted like, don't taste like you used to
Take pride in your past or you’ll puke up your future
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3. |
Poetic Licence to Kill
04:22
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He’s a killer wordsmith
but never shares the inner hurt that lurks beneath the surface
verses may seem blank at first but paper cuts are dangerous
a blade waits to strike inside spaces in his stanzas
in horn rim glasses he comes across as anxious
alliterates an altered state to mask his pent up anger
he’s just a Ken Barlow character, an everyday Clark Kent
but Hydes with Jekyll in plain sight to disguise his main intent
cos his sonnets with assault you, his limericks inflict some pain
the lines he breaks are designed to marginalize his prey
He punctuates his victims, ends their lives with full-stops,
tortures them with pauses from the commas that he drops
a dash in to their drink entrapping with enjambment
then cracking with a claw-hammer in back of their skullcap,
hack up with Haikus with arsenal of vile tools,
contorts at their form by defiling all the style rules
Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will
An asexual predator, self-presenting as a nerd
edits out his enemies leaves them still with sparse words
Speaking at nightly readings, never bleeds his inner soul
voice wobbles as an orator, but he’s a killer in control
Most don’t know his poetry makes them take final breaths
at spoken word events scoping who he should choke next
breaks necks stretching syllables in surreptitious septets
stressing out his listeners with most malicious of intent.
He’ll waterboard your senses with deplorable conviction
and Wall to wall smorgasbords of rhymes equipped with diction
Forward slashes with assonance - the vowel’s hemoglobin
Disembowels your last gasp, only left with semi-colon
impales your entrails on a note that he just wrote on
inserts it in a journal where he keeps his kill list quota
and plans the next attack when pen will meet the reaper
repeat the same feet to the sequence of a metre.
Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will
The onomatopoeic slayer is getting caught bang to rights
They’re saying he gave up his pen and pad and held his hands up high The writer retreats to confinement in an uninspiring cell
To go and lose the plot device as he twists insides a shelve
As his story takes a turn, now he sees the hurt he’s made
By reflecting on his worth in verse releases by refrain
Or just Imagining empathy cos its what we want to hear?
Conning us with couplets of what a Croc of tears
Or maybe he can’t confess to what a mess his stream of thought
of a novel disposition of want to cut your story short
damaged by perception that’s he’s deafened by his demons
no page left to turn when the mark he leaves is burning
he goes and does the big reveal by hanging from a ceiling
this isn’t poetic justice for the damage to the grieving
their narratives are abandoned as they lost the ones they love
who felt his every word as he closed their covers shut.
Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will
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4. |
Grandmaster Caz
04:24
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Top nots and dreadlocks on white kids just fuck off
The wooks have invaded Appropriating a culture
Some say I'm the Same by doing this record
I never forget I'm a guest In this method
that came From the street was repeated world over
from Kool Herc To Keith, chuck d and 5 Boroughs
came under the grounds and over the oceans
A thousand translations One language keeps flowing
A Million tongues just spitting A lingo,
a billion Ingesting the message That lingers
fluent in bars poured over The rhythm
Not just on the rocks but all mixed and all different
And just like the blues and right thru to 2step
These movements of music were started by black men
and women of colour stylised their own secrets
sharing their love In some public meetups
from sock-hops to cyphers, dance halls and block parties
To raves in a basement With hot sweating bodies
We're are in it now but the Roots of the Culture
Should not be dismissed or just taken over
Like playing at gigs with only white faces
I'm looking about seeing only white faces
It happened to jazz with only white faces
The drum and a bass with only white faces
and I can't understand The fans who are racist
They claim they are Hiphop, they are complacent
Saying all lives matter condemning the riots
Twas happening to them, would they not just fight it
They're critical of blacks standing up to the system
Who’ve been tasered, enslaved and put in to prisons
Shot in the face, Killed when in custody
Last to get picked for job opportunities
Those polis are stopping them searching most often
not just in the US, UK its a problem
Do lives only matter when scoring a hattrick?
Droppin' some bars or making you laugh?
Did you not hear the message receive edutainment?
They've been fighting the power since put into slave ships
This music they grew to used rhyming as protest
with living in struggle or did you not notice?
Didn't happen to you so don't care for their story?
You only listen for bling, the guns and the glory
The Belittling of women needs rid from the scene
cos when ignorant listen only message they gleam
is b words and n words so okay for them
To repeat as a term To blurt with their friends
Just cos rappers are using it don't give you carte blanche
to shoot with a slur don’t effect you first hand
can’t reclaim the privilege you already have
cos context is lost on a Caucasian man
in a world designed in the rise of his benefit
lifestyle comprised of other tribes heritage
Like sound systems given to Britain from Kingston
brought by the Windrush on promise of citizen
gave us the deejay, the selector the riddims
from dub to nightclubs in many hole pigeons
Heating up beats with microphone toasting
Gave birth to m.c's and battle rap boasting
Helped with the rise of night time economy
by Sharing their sound but here is the robbery-
From Brixton to Brookyln, the hipster is moving
In to the hoods where they got a shoo-in
Accruing the last of the best of the venues
hiking up prices with artisan menus
Rent rises locals unable to live,
Evicted from ends where they started the gigs
Organically approved this definitely ain't
middle class cashing on what others made
like Graf fonts on restaurants to make them seem radical
gift rapped as urban to make it more palatable
as Hip-hop stays pop and highly homogeneous
Street beats get eaten by greedy Metropolis
like Ed Sheeran featuring with Grime pioneers
I'm Sick of the shape of his weird ginger beard
Cos whitewashing pays, using black as backdrop
for Shifting a product but where is the love gone?
So don't let this last stanza be like Grandmaster Caz
with styles plagiarized all the way to the bank
fuck off imposters don't listen to that
and acknowledge the scholars who taught us to rap.
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5. |
Cycle of Vices
04:28
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Need to stay of the drug that keep fucking me up
The days wasted gazing at faces of book
My right to be social - corporately endorsed,
addicted to clicks, endorphins be running their course.
Dopamine’s my protein while I’m mining for likes
I’m voting with emojis as democracy declines.
eye sockets fondled by never-ending nonsense
eye contact avoided, I’m blinded by content
Procrastinating tasks in a basket with all of my eggs
meant to be multitasking but I’ve lapsed in the dregs
falling out with friends who don’t share my world view
assumptions are made, we rant and accuse
off to go yodel down my echo chamber, echo chamber
Dosing all the feels while my spiel is all in favour
Stalling all my thoughts, purporting idle vapours
Ignoring all the wars by lining walls with phrases.
Is it time to say bye bye to vices?
inside this device I try and type lines with?
I try and confide when I’m pie eyed on vices
might make my next vice to live life in silence.
I wuz a coulda, woulda shoulda brother smothered in bud
Dumb, shuddering under covers, my mind made stuff up
Scutinising my life at night, would it never shut up?
Always asking the why but not adding up.
As smoke filled my vocals with slow strobes of panic
The headlights were bright I was squashed like a rabbit
crushed up to road kill, run over by traffic
introverted my purpose, was monosyllabic.
Gawked in the corner as folk talked right at me
up in smoke in-jokes with lads in the back seats
hacked up a laugh from the choke of the backy
I was hooked on the leaf thanks to Sir Walter Raleigh
Do you blaze by the way - I would never have guessed?
from hot air you boast, not hot rocks in vest
victimless crime except time wasting breath
introspection is fine if you’ve got something left.
Is it time to say bye bye to vices?
inside this device I try and type lines with?
I try and confide when I’m pie eyed on vices
might make my next vice to live life in silence
Round and round and snorting like a Punxsutawney groundhog,
nose is learning lines, deliver loud and shouty monologues,
but whose line is it anway? As I Improvise with fivers,
snorkelling with some straws, I’m a soaring nose diver.
Rooting for the toot, yeah I’m spurred into action,
sound of my voice - on point to perfection.
A puppy with a treat rewarding pathways to the brain,
go and do a whoopsie other end from which it came.
I riffle up the white inside the septum till it tickles,
not got a cold by the way but I’m stifled by the sniffles.
Could feed myself for two weeks for a g of this new beak.
Who died in the supply of his bleached Coca Leaf?
Still awake at six fishing for sniff in the morning,
pestering my friend list as withdrawal sets in,
texting a dealer who’s switched off their Samsung,
I’ve rung then ten times, am I’m doing their head-in?
Is it time to say bye bye to vices?
inside this device I try and type lines with?
I try and confide when I’m pie eyed on vices
might make my next vice to live life in silence
Bored of the booze and the clap-trap patter,
and getting loose to the hoo-ha of a drunken stupor
staggering like italics, making big bold statements,
a nakka getting hammered - never felt so ancient
bladdered drinking faster and sniffing dangerously,
spannered off my nut but threads went flimsy.
How many nights out I don’t remember?
How many lines crossed? I start to shudder.
Sick of woes of regret and my moldy breath,
a hungover tongue seared like sirloin steak,
The days written off like a car crash wreckage
Wanted to write more pages but head felt sluggish
But now I’m sober and worried I’ll have no crack,
no emotional courage from Amsterdam
Don’t wanna get slack handling drab interactions
Drinking glass flagons, falling back off the wagon.
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6. |
We are not FutureProof
04:54
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You said we’re headed for upheaval, we’ve had it cushty up to here
As they clusterfuck the future I’m lackluster with my peers
As they carpet- bombed the capital while the ice reduced to tears
distracted by advancements, all I answered was ‘oh dear’.
I used to fancy myself as a masked anti-capitalist poster boy,
Tear gas gasping, grandstanding solider boy
Latching onto Trotsky, followed flocks of bearded men
We argued over ends and means, forgot that we were friends
squandered it with squabbles as the horrible lot got stronger
We said never again a lot but never got our shit together
Now we’re hanging on to fragments of this splintered opinion
While the right invites itself inside with no opposition
All I ask is after the fall of snowflakes melt, what is left?
What is next?- Earth evaporates in a passive mess
We’ve slumped out of function, inactive at best,
And Glass never shatters when we don’t hold our breath.
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do we stand to do something to curb the confusion?
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do we stand to do something to curb the confusion?
Do I begrudge myself for not budging an inch, right at the brink
As water rises past my eyes and land begins to sink
getting too bogged down sifting my own bullshit
to lift a finger for those born into war who live in the distance
Dip my toes into protest like a floating tourist
skip at the next flight forget to check out my white privilege
I wish good riddance to the villains who pillage our livings into winnings
who wouldn’t piss on their civilian minions if they were fire victims
But I’ve let these putrid losers off the hook to rule roost of souls
joined a long queue of excuses in an age of Push overs,
scrolled through the side-roads that divert us from the action
with platforms to downgrade passions via micromanaged tantrums
Have I ended up a moderate like my parents said I would do
In a malaise of complacency reminiscing of my youth of a
Gurevera T-shirt wearer asking why revolution’s so taboo?
and was denounced as just a phase of the haven’ t got a clues.
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do I stand to something to curb the confusion?
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do I stand to do something to curb the confusion?
We stuck an Elastoplast on the past but the wounds of the future
are wide open with polarized emotions and polluted solutions
Prize off the dried muck stuck to the ruffling of your feathers,
If fucks are not given here are we not all fucked in this failing endeavour?
And Obi one Kenobi was never gonna be your only hope
but now Labour’s pulling apart the polls by scoring at own goals
As jabbed and anti-vax clash, the fat cats have the last laugh
blagging taxed-cash via pals passing back-hander contracts
and the search engines take mentions to plunder all our thoughts
while Zuckerberg is lurking in a Meta discourse.
We ‘re too busy hurting others quirks with hyperboles on a querty,
To consider Earth turning worthless in another thirty
We succumbed to dumbness and through stupidity is hate
Though it may be fashionable to be an arsehole its not time to cull all faith
in humanity as we’ve breathed an eon and persevered through a maze
Signed, yours sincerely, a citizen, I wanna seal a better fate.
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do we stand to do something to curb the confusion?
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do we stand to do something to curb the confusion?
They capslocked the present till they capsized the future
a glut of abundant self-indulgent polluters
A backdrop of end times, a countdown conundrum
Do you stand to do something to curb the confusion?
Do you stand to do something,
do you stand to do something?
do you stand to do something?
Just something
Anything before it’s too late
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7. |
Second Wind
04:02
|
Donald Jenkins Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK
Donald Jenkins is a late bloomer, weather-beaten and questioning what possessed him at the ‘decrepit’ age of 44 to start a
career as a rapper?
Was it part mid-life crisis, his life-long love of Hip-Hop or just his ongoing obsession of playing with words?
... more
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