[Eddie P and Frisko]
Alright, yo Matter, homie, you look like a crackhead Moby
And Lunar's left earlobe is falling apart slowly
And you need to tell your mother not to phone me
Cause I swear, last time, that's some dark sh** she told me
His Mum's left nip looks like a cleft lip
And his cider-swigging Dad looks like Rab C Nesbitt's been
Dragged through a cesspit
And force-fed infected Nesquik until his head went septic
Your Mum can keep getting her bud on tick
Keep getting in more debt, but eventually I'll bend her over
And f** her up t'bum with t'courgette
And I don't know who you think you're murking
I'll prise your Mum's p**y open with a gherkin
And push it in ‘til it's really f**in' hurting
Stand back, chuck gla** and dirt in
And I'll come over and squirt a bit of turps in
And on the subject of your Mum, will you take control?
I'm not surprised she's scraping dole
She gave me bucks for a bacon roll and got left with t'gaping hole
[?]
Matter, you've got weak genetics
Everyone in your family is either going bald, going blind, or a straight-up diabetic
That have lost their lower limbs and walk around on prosthetics
Either eat fruit, eat veg, hit t'gym, or get healthier
Cause right about now brother, he's looking like Tom Hanks
In the final scenes of The Streets of Philadelphia
You look like something out of Trainspotting that's gone rotten
And then s**ed the fart out of the bottom of Dot Cotton
Yo Matter, my styles are doing considerably sharper, mate
And I'm finding your monotone style really hard to rate
It's making me wanna drag your face down through a lava lake
And laugh when your face starts melting apart at an alarming rate
And Lunar, it deserves a mention
You've got good lyrics, flows and projection
But you've got a bit of a LITHP, INNIT
And that's like your Mum's fanny, CRITHP, INNIT
And then I cheese-grated her flaps, served her over baps
And eat ‘em and relax, you're gettin' beaten and slapped ‘bout
[Lunar C and Matter]
Alright yo, yo, yo
Gimme the drop to the grimy ba**
Big up to the ravers inside the place
Hold on, what the f** is this, 1998?!
Cause D'n'B hype been dead for years
So make noise for what comes next
Right now, we're ending this drum and ba** f*ggot's dreams...
Dubstep!
You got a big ol' chin and a bulbous nose that looks like a limp dick
With that hair colour and complexion you look like a lit spliff
Why the f** do gingers smell like piss and biscuits?!
And stop saying you're a badman, you know you aren't
Them petty bars will not suffice! The best flip you ever had was...
“I know you are, you said you are, but what am I?”
You clueless, stupid, useless ba*tard
Loving getting goosed in cabbage
There's no way you can manage
One day without watching Human Traffic
And saying sh** like “Yo, it's like they took our lives
And put it in front of movie cameras”
And you could handle the d** in your heyday
But you look f**ed now, Frisko
All that spunk and ecstasy has given you Comedown Syndrome
And you talk about d** a lot
But this is where the fun'll stop
Cause I'm not talking pills when I say
You two are getting double-dropped
Yo, Bowski! Bowski! When you battled this f*g
And he was like “Giggity-goo, for a piggity-poo”
I thought he were taking the piss outta you
Till I went on YouTube, and checked out his tracks
And they sounded like “Dibbedy-dibbedy two!”
You tell little girls that your hair colour is Moulin Rouge
And who are you? Do you just come out the
Woodwork when there's a two-on-two?
You're only out the house when you need a
Fresh tube of lube or a new spoon to use
And the rest of your time is spent cotching in the dark
Concocting sh**ty bars, cause Frisko keeps you
Locked up in the yard, and once a week
For a lovely treat, he takes you on a
Shopping trip to Spar for a copy of The Star