And all the pockets in all the doors
Are full of wrappers;
There’s Dr Dre, stuffed in the ashtray,
Skepta’s bitter among the footwell litter.
Tupac’s trapped in a Tupperware container
Prattling about his drive-bys
As I try my best to drive by
B & M, Home Bargains, Quality Save and Lidl
And in that locker thing right in the middle,
That lifts up in between the seats,
There’s Jay-Z eating boiled sweets,
Doing that gesture stoned kids reckon
Means he’s really a secret freemason,
Pulling Trump & Obama’s strings
While the muffled voice of Beyonce sings,
Sitting in my boot, on top of my suit
That I’ve just brought back from Johnson’s cleaners.
What could be meaner?
Under the front seat, on the passenger side,
That’s where Tinie Tempah hides,
Skulking round my garage with his grime,
He interrupts me every time
I try and reverse
Between the mowers and the bikes
It makes me curse, and it’s getting worse,
The exchanges are terse.
P Diddy’s left boxes of his designer suits
Underneath my stairs, not that I care
if he went out with Britney,
‘cause they don’t even fit me.
I’m down with Diddy, he’s just like me;
I can’t dance either: See!
And I’m sick and tired, and getting mithered
Fetching League Express for Tinchy Stryder,
He’s too bone idle to walk to our shop;
Edgy, urban artists avoid Hall Green Co-op.
It’s rubbish up our end, even though it’s star-studded,
A Kreepy Klown attacked me and his chainsaw flooded.
And Kanye West and Kim Kardashian
I don’t know about their car, but I bet it’s a flashy ‘un.
Mine’s worth 600, part-ex or cash;
Maybe £650 with Grandmaster Flash.
Rappers in your car are a nuisance.