(Intro)
(Bridge)
See the guy on the cover?
It ain't me, That n***a hates me
I'm JarBag, and that's Jarred
Don't worry, He's dead
That's why I'm leaving school
Cos I blew off his f**ing head
k**ed his dad too, but that's not what the feds said
(Verse 1)
Miniature crime story, My life's violent and gory
f** an allegory, My songs immorally wrong
I'm off and on, like you once you found out Djed wears a thong
I have a bad reception, giving you bad impressions
Going to s** ed lessons, screaming out "f** contraception!"
The worst since 9/11 and 7/7 combined!
And my birth was years behind
n***a, I was only born in '99!
So me saying rude sh** is now fine
I don't know how to count, but I can shot you a Playstation
I can't see right, cos Lewis gave me two faces
And these racist do-rag-wearing haters, accuse JarBag and black guys of being murderers and rapist's
So basically, I live in a city where it's cool to talk back
Ladies get smacked, cars get jacked
f** opinions, we're just in-forced with facts
We take crack, live in council flats and pay a sh** load of tax
And die by 25, from gang sh**, or being fat
But f** it, No lie, I'm becoming a stereotype in a society that I terrorize
Adolescence has left us idiot in many variations
This is my demonstration that circulation leaves elementary beyond explanation
I'm an irritable fool
Whenever I want to
So JarBag fits my name, just like the fonts do
And if you hate me? Guess what?
f** you
(Verse 2)
f** a hook, I'mma just go right back in
Write lyrics bout drug abuse, and extreme violence
And try and diss, rappers richer than me
For constant s** puns, and gun crime on prime time TV
And say the grind cos they smoke weed, and pay £2000 fines
And lie like Rick Ross, bout there past life
In spite the fact, they a** wipes
And get ga**ed cos they drop a few sh** hits, Like Kriss Kross
And talk about how they the boss, and make dumb fans think they're selling rocks
And have the balls to say it's hip-hop and not pop
Sorry, I get pissed off a lot
I can't socially, my brain aches
So when I scream "Ay" and say "Hey", You know you're f**ed
Like kids when a pedophile comes, saying what's up? (What's up?)
This mixtape was made to s** you're money
So don't try anything funny, cos I got nine to the head of you're mummy
Airing you, like you after a punch in the tummy
Coming at you, till you actually cumming
And I'm gunning these scumbag f*gs, who love JarBag when he sells a bit
And excels in the way he spits in his sh**, and this is my introduction to me
So but my f**ing tape
'Fore I k** you're family