Menace

You are not the grime scene saviour
You sly weak hater
A little pop tart that owes Wiley favours
And doesn't really understand these shystie majors
They sell your pop songs to these nice teenagers
And don't get me wrong you might be famous
But they buy green acres
You buy neat trainers (Nikes)
You were more real as an ID faker
Make enough love songs and you might see paper
When you see 1, the label see a hundred crispy bills
That is what happens when you sign 360 deals
Give this chump a little chance, punch you in his heart
Got signed for a chump then bumped for his advance
Getting hyped cos some 12 year olds felt your song
But what you gonna do when all the little girls are gone
You'll be as frail as the songs you got wealthy from
And be a tiny little dancer for Elton John
You ain't even worth the ink in my fingertips
Does this little midget really think he's a lyricist?
To drink from my flippin sink is a privilege
Copy Jay-Z and make your fingers a pyramid
Keep making soulless music your fans buy
But jam your hype and hang tight with your damp rhymes
Hearing you is sad like watching ants die
But people know the truth behind your hand signs
Am not telling anybody to get hostile
This is just a hobby I feel sorry for this lost child
Chipmunk chipmunk chipmunk chipmunk
Lyrical skill isn't measured by your income
They tell me leave the kid alone
He's faker than silicone
My lyrics expose reveal the soul of this jigga clone
Little jigga minnie me, didn't sleep just twitter beef
Still its peak for this little meek in his skinny jeans
Should I snap fingers, end all tweeting, take off my slipper and give parental beatings
Sword razor tongue, means your days are done
This yute is big headed in more ways than one
You diss vex but you spit wet Little Princess
Sony is searching for the next bigheads to pick next
You're not hard, little pop tart, think you got bars
U might top charts but lyrically u flopped hard
Silly voice pretty boy that shaves his eyebrows
Grime scenes very own amy winehouse
Your loopy lately, could you be crazy
What kinda man calls a rap song oopsy daisy
I'm a real mc they won't forget me
Fill up your bank account your soul is empty
If u getting vexed ask yourself what you represent
You can't get respect you took a bite of the devil's bread
And the money u made will mean nothing when you're dead
So think when you get that deep thought through your pregnant head
If u get depressed you can pay for next tattoos
Or phone up your mandem JLS to back you
Pick the wrong option, it's likely you got problems
You can't try me I'm not Wiley or Dot Rotten
Not the hardest MC far from the best rapper
Not in this scene but maybe on X Factor
Hide inside your house cos we're sick of your wining mouth
Every sentence will slay the secrets under Simon Cowell
Stay calm fool when the napalm fools
All the youths on your ends call u Hey Arnold
Gutless diva with a tough demeanour
How does it feel to be the UK's justin bieber
If you're a lyricist stop coming with them poppy bars
Talk is cheap u can't walk the street without your bodyguards
If money is nothing why is an issue why you rhyme
Money is nothing can't take it with you when you die
Make another track that says how much cash you get
It can't buy u skill credibility or happiness