Lyrics Chateaux in Toulouse - Jam Baxter, Dirty Dike, Dabbla

Chateaux in Toulouse

Oi, shit
Aren’t you the kid who got lobotomized?
Or the kid that smacked the dollar signs off your eyes?
Fully under qualified
Kicking off in God’s office
Mind state rock solid
Whole body fossilized
I got a couple hundred crews that I move between
And we all live our lives in a lucid dream
They got their pupils glued to every moving screen
Blueish-green eyes keep spinning
Like a fruit machine
All three wheels land on bar-bar-bar, star
Twenty pence avalanche
Five star par
Skin red raw like boeuf tartare
Mind mushed to a paste like duck foie gras
Yeah, so you’re content to drive a riot van?
I suggest you try our cyanide diet plan
He was sure that badge he flashed made him Iron Man
Uniformed piggy, slash slimy old slice of ham
And I ain’t gonna quit for shit
Check your raffle tickets, kids
You’ve all won a life-time supply of Jam
Collect the coupons
I collect leggy skets, experimental psychedelic chemicals
And twenty decks
I awake smelling lemon fresh
And a trophy on my shelf reads
«Best dressed dishevelled mess»
You just want a hellish crèche full of dead pensioners
Rocking chair rejects, day center regulars
I’ve had an hour and a half’s kip
And I ain’t showered since the last gig
On some 'flowers and a gimp-mask' shit
With a hip flask
I pitch slow, but I live fast
I tip-toe round your big bars
With a shit dance
And six-figure body pop a bitch in the tits, fast
You laugh, and I suppose it’s funny if your dad approves
I make it all about your mummy
And her attitude
So come take this yayo
We’ll have you looking like a fucking sun-baked potato
Some cunt’s smudged the mayo
And you do all this dumb drunk stuff because I say so
Hey ho, bye hoe, I don’t wanna cry hoe
Put me horizontal with a bevvy on my lilo
Strap me in a snorkel and forget me as I die slow
Italian spaghetti through the portal of your iPhones
Cry those, tears in a plastic bag of sympathy
I’m empathetic to the fattest slag who diddled me
If that’s pathetic you can stab a weapon in your feet
And run a hundred meters through
A stinging nettle sex-retreat
That’s what I thought
You dodge my Olympics over one obnoxious thought
Spore, I challenge you to everything
I’m arrogant, I’ll bang her
You’re embarrassed on your Ketamine
Fuck, smoke some shit that had me thinking «damn»
The opposite of all that stuff you see on Instagram
All this pouting is putting me off my fucking food
Now I’m skipping dessert while I’m switching dinner plans
Took a dip in the forest and nearly pooed myself
You stick your dick in a goddess
You need to prove yourself
Another sip, nearly sick in an orange Sainsbury’s bag
Still I held it in with a grin and spudded my future self
Big, that’s how it feels to peel an extra layer
Crème brûlée-a, the gentle spray of the deadly player
Great purveyor, my flavour’s straight from the Himalaya
Yeah, put your hands in the motherfuckin' «ayer»
And bust a wave for the ones
Who forgotten how to dance
And crack a smile in their face like it’s
Shattered powdered glass
You continue to talk out of your arse
Well I’ll be living like a bawss in a house
In the South of France