Lyrics What D'you Expect - Dirty Dike, Mr Key, Jam Baxter

What D'you Expect

My crew’s mutant
Missing parts
Tumors and a dicky heart
Stop till the ticker starts
Loop it and I spit a bar
Cruising on the wishing star
Dusting with the opiates
Nothing but the dopest
From a crusty little vocalist
Yah, I write couplets with a broken wrist
And spoken with an open bicuspid
And a throat that’s slit, bitch!
Why tussle with a open fist
I gave you everything I had in life
And didn’t hope for shit
Still a chauvinist type of prick
When I spy a chick’s finer bits
Eyes’ll bip wider than vagina lips
Life with six sides
I flip dices to decide and pick
Which type of chick
I should hit with my giant dick
Nah, I’m like a sick bastard, a nihilist
Trying it with a pig mask and a riding whip
Live with a knife I sit chopping my face off
Its waste top straight from a bottle of brainwash
Mate what’ya expect, something different?
Wait till your father and step mother listen to the filth
Pig fat dripping from the grill
But it’s real!
Spitting till I’m stricken from the will, still
Stressed out in a fresh cloud of madness
Precipitate rain made of sadness and anger
Back from the cancer
Dripping with asbestos
Test-tube frog prince
Kiss him and
I rep for the S’s, for the M’s, for the B’s
For the sweat beads peppering my neck for my team
For what’s left of my dreams I’mma fight and die kicking
The quiet type
Looking like the sky at night hit him
I arrive spitting like its Iron Mike swinging
Limelights dimming
Cyanide swigging
So is this the type of world your messiah might live in?
Fuck him, I’m just gonna try die grinning
Something ain’t quite right in my head yet
Clinging to the sides of a life full of excess
Live in a sket’s dress
Live from the sweat fest
Please welcome the mind of a sex pest!
Am I dead yet?
Nah, just a dead vibe
Kinda like a fresh jet of lemon to the left eye
Legs like jelly with a belly full of red wine
Bled dry, looking like a wet pie
Get high!
Skets try messing with my head like headlice
Fuck that!
Pick 'em out, flick 'em at the next guy
Hence I
Stay sniffing at the breadline
Let fly cum spray
Splattered on a red sky
Rabbit in the headlights
Fetus in the crapper
Snackin on my flesh
Like the beetles in my bladder
Wot?
You expect something next?
Expect nothing less than the next grubby mess
I’m still using
Life is a blaggard in a tight spot
Lost with a cracker and a canister of nitrous
Watch as I stagger like your boss on his night off
Why not?
Fuck it if it matters, I’m a right cock
The sky’s what my bladder is the size of
Wine clog sack of what you gather in your white snot
Life stops
I wake covered in a smeggy paste
Smelling like the freshly baked flavour of yesterday
Anyway, I hit the rave in a silly state
Waving a Biggie tape straight in a hippie’s face
Wait, you expect something civil?
The next fucking prick to come and headbutt a chick’ll be me
All please listen to the beat
Mr C, Jammy B, Mr Key and me — SMB
Ed Scissor-T and Ronnie B — CP
Making what you’re rating seem easy
So come and get a lesson at the next show
Tesco mission for some bevvies with a wet nose
Lets go repping like the 70s to Steptoe
Save no pennies, you can bet I feckin spent loads!
Pressure in the headphones, snappin up the mic-stand
Lapping up the slime from the tracks in my rhyme plans
Yep, if you want what’s expected
Come and sing along from the bottom of the cesspit
E: Wasteman!
D: Scissor!
E: What’s poppin' son?
D: I’m just fucking mastering my album innit, finishing everything
E: Oi don’t — don’t master it without me!
D: Well.
this is it, I wanna record this fuckin tune with you on the end of it,
but you’re not fuckin here are you?
E: Well I’ll be.
I’ll be back uh.
D: Nah bruv, I’m finishing it this weekend regardless
E: ok well uh.
D: Ronnie Bosh as well!
He didn’t make it, what the fuck!
It’s like, give me a fiver, I’ll fling you a CD
But, give me the mic, and you’re finished, it’s sweet dreams
Man they tryin it, lying and thinking with PC
I leave chicks crying and stinking of deep heat
So what d’you expect?
Something similar?
CP, SMB
The familiar face
I space the desperate waste is dead
Better lay in it ladies I’ve made my bed
Save the skets for later, the stage is set
Watch Ronnie Bosh profit off of blatant theft
Ancient creps will step on the paper’s edge
But never spend pence when they could be paid in debt
That’s free money
Fact, that scene’s crummy
I’mma preach till these sweet-pea creeps scream mummy for me!
It’s better to be deep than be lucky
Bosh, you’ll never see a weak chief touch me
Stop to settle for a peace?
Please sonny
Well I feast on the green leaves that keep me scummy
Funny, something ain’t quite how it should be
Hooks need sharpening for this crowd of shook freaks
You mistook me for them?
Well then who’s who then?
No I ain’t Dike or Ed
They’re too gruesome
No I ain’t Jams, and I ain’t Luke Nukem
It’s Bosh Comma on lock the screws loosen
E: Oi, I couldn’t make it.
What can I say?
D: aw, wasteman!
E: But I’m back in Cambridge on Wed-nes-day
D: What, and how are you gonna record your verse?
E: I dunno, can’t we figure something out?
Thursday is the… would be perfect
and I dunno, there’s gotta be, there’s definitely got to be somewhere we can
sort out, I’m sure.
Yeah well it’s the 14th on Wednesday
D: Yeah, alright cool we just need to get an acapella and send it to Adrian
E: Standard, alright
D: alright, safe, well I’ll chat to you soon
E: Cool, in a bit