| They dug the shade of his mop,
|
| They liked the way that he spoke,
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| They flew him out of the sticks,
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| And out him up in the smoke,
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| They gave him chocolate and cheese,
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| They told him he was the next,
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| Young son to some young life,
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| Straight from the crest,
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| The way he spat at his mic,
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| His lyrics couldn’t be fresher,
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| They said he’d be a superstar,
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| If he could handle the pressure,
|
| After they put it to paper,
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| They took him to tea,
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| And told him just a couple changes,
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| That they wanted to see
|
| Oh what a shame,
|
| But it’s easy, can’t you see?
|
| What a shame,
|
| That they won’t ever let you be.
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| They said his hair would be better,
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| If he coloured it black,
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| And that he wouldn’t sound as harsh if he could tone it all back,
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| They dressed him up in a craze,
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| To make him look pretty,
|
| They said the kids would dig,
|
| If he looked like he came from the city,
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| They listened back to his cut,
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| His music was tight,
|
| But if he changed a couple lyrics,
|
| In the chorus it might,
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| Sound fresher than ever,
|
| A radio hit,
|
| And all the ladies will sing it,
|
| When they get into the pit.
|
| Oh what a shame,
|
| But it’s easy, can’t you see?
|
| What a shame,
|
| That they won’t ever let you be. |