Letras
Hold tight the Grime Reaper on productions, yeah
Big up my mum, my dad, my brother, my sister, Skepta
Serious
Hold tight Wiley, Boy Better Know
J-M-E
See, I got bare labels phoning me, but
Cash point ain't showing me no love
Everyone's got my tunes on their phone
And the CD in their PC at home
Is packed with all the tunes that I've done
But my wallet ain't saying one
You think I'm making mad P
You're right, my money is angry with me
It took me five years to get ten A to C's
But in five days, I get ten AC's
Somebody out there, please tell me
What I'ma do with my uni degree
I don't want a job, blud, I swear down, I just wanna be a big MC
Or something along them lines, swear on my life
Music means so much to me
Getting a degree, to me is like a plan B
It will mean so much to my family
But understand me
JavaScript, makes me wanna swear like Plan B
I know it'll come in handy
I stick with it, even when I get angry
And I'm not on my own, I got a brother in this music game like Brandy
He knows how much music means to me
We're just trying to make money legally
I know guys that'll creep in your house, go upstairs, open a safe, and steal a G
That sounds like quick P to me
But still, I travel on C2C
And WAGN, and Silverlink, everything's not what it seems to be
You think I'm stupid, move on
Stereotype me, I'll prove you wrong
Ask anybody that knew me ages ago
They'll say I had my head screwed on
"Yeah, Jamie, that guy, he's cool
Trust me, blud, he went to my school
He made me a ringtone once, it was like Eskimo mixed into old school"
To this day, still ain't changed
Jme, music in his veins
Same face, same deranged
Thoughts coming through the speaker each day
Mum still shouting, "Turn down the bass"
Bredrens lounging around the place
I don't smoke, but my room's smoked out
Can't see my hand in front of my face
As if I'm in a time capsule
My pockets are still filled with shrapnel
Only difference is some of it's Euros
I've been travelling, capital to capital
I've been 'nough countries, I swear
One day I'ma write them all down
If you turn the clock back two years
I don't think I'd have even left town
But still, I used to make hits, I was blessed with a lyrical art
The other MCs, they weren't shit, but they come like lyrical farts
And they stunk, I used to hate them
See, nowadays, I rate them
Not 'cause I think that they're down
But for simply sticking around
The bars I write, they're like Red Bull
Trust, blud, I got a whole shed full
Yeah, sometimes I can be a hothead, but, more time, my head's cool
When I'm a hothead, I don't get lyrical
I get serious, lyrically physical
I start shouting stuff like, "Derkhead," and people think it's really cool
In the MC rank, I'm a piss take
Yeah, blud, I'm way before fifth place
Jme, everyone saw his face
See, now I've got about four mixtapes
Trust me, I know you're playing 'em
And all of my lyrics, you're saying 'em
Even your girl says, "Shh hut yuh muh," there's no escaping, it's blatant
Yo, blud, man better known
No one test with the dibby-dibby flow
Flow 'round here on the mic, I'm a pro
Professional in the game, and you know
All this war and clash is trash
I'll make a tune or bore some gash
Don't get rude, I said, don't get rude, or I will singe your 'tache
Yo, blud, stand over there
Dare you attempt to swear
Swear down, I'll burn your ear
'Ear what, blud, you know, I don't even care
All this push out your chest is late
I did that in 1998
Don't get rude (blood, I said), don't get rude or I'll phlegm in your face
Jme
Derkhead, edition three