Tekst:
Dizzee: Who's that who's that who's that…?
Girl: The dopest, flyest OG pimp hustler, gangster player hardcore motherfucker living today To be honest I'm totally and completely on his dick
And you know this…man!
Verse 1:
It's the return of Dizzee Rascal…Dem bwoi nah ready yet trend dat u never set Silence silence silence dat stop that start that get that Yeah you know, Going on dirty going on stank Yo
Roll deep with these, put these MC's on deep freeze,
Hit these Whitney's and rip these, I'm like Busta we flip these, So Please
Don't rap with these, fearless, angry, sick MC's
Don't like Christine's or Britney's, Lala's or Tinky Winky's
And this one strictly for pick these? Old school afro dry white beats
Barclays Halifax we stick these, Endless gunshots we lick these
Trick these CID's with ease, touch mic MC's jump like fleas
Playa haters get chopped like trees, a boy rascal to a boy in histories
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eye out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
Verse 2
So far from clean, play kiss chase with your aunt Maureen
Get rhymes get heard get seen Dizzee run tings like Idi Armin
Keep vigilant keep on guard, we chuck grenades at Scotland Yard
Retard get kicked hard real hard, leave death threats in your birthday card
“O my days what is he like?� Dizzeecom Dizzeebust mic
World wide web/east end, Dizzeecom jack your girlfriend!
Couk at the stopper, Bare-foot Pimpholler
Frank Frasier lyrical tank, Dizzeecom/going on stank
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eye out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
Verse 3
Ding dong, its on, fake MC's wanna sing my song
Wanna test my react bring it on; wanna take me for a mong? (Nar that's wrong)
Hit �em with the Jeet Kun Do, like key low blow leave bullet holes in the moschinos clothes
What like where the weed grows, carry condoms for the hoes
Back front inside out, Dizzee got the floor to make a boy white out
Six foot deep you could never climb out, I smoke the weed till my mum finds out
Front back outside in, bare-foot kids living on ging-seng
Blud make him like doggy-styling, in a dark park where the dark come in
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eyes out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
Girl: The dopest, flyest OG pimp hustler, gangster player hardcore motherfucker living today To be honest I'm totally and completely on his dick
And you know this…man!
Verse 1:
It's the return of Dizzee Rascal…Dem bwoi nah ready yet trend dat u never set Silence silence silence dat stop that start that get that Yeah you know, Going on dirty going on stank Yo
Roll deep with these, put these MC's on deep freeze,
Hit these Whitney's and rip these, I'm like Busta we flip these, So Please
Don't rap with these, fearless, angry, sick MC's
Don't like Christine's or Britney's, Lala's or Tinky Winky's
And this one strictly for pick these? Old school afro dry white beats
Barclays Halifax we stick these, Endless gunshots we lick these
Trick these CID's with ease, touch mic MC's jump like fleas
Playa haters get chopped like trees, a boy rascal to a boy in histories
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eye out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
Verse 2
So far from clean, play kiss chase with your aunt Maureen
Get rhymes get heard get seen Dizzee run tings like Idi Armin
Keep vigilant keep on guard, we chuck grenades at Scotland Yard
Retard get kicked hard real hard, leave death threats in your birthday card
“O my days what is he like?� Dizzeecom Dizzeebust mic
World wide web/east end, Dizzeecom jack your girlfriend!
Couk at the stopper, Bare-foot Pimpholler
Frank Frasier lyrical tank, Dizzeecom/going on stank
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eye out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
Verse 3
Ding dong, its on, fake MC's wanna sing my song
Wanna test my react bring it on; wanna take me for a mong? (Nar that's wrong)
Hit �em with the Jeet Kun Do, like key low blow leave bullet holes in the moschinos clothes
What like where the weed grows, carry condoms for the hoes
Back front inside out, Dizzee got the floor to make a boy white out
Six foot deep you could never climb out, I smoke the weed till my mum finds out
Front back outside in, bare-foot kids living on ging-seng
Blud make him like doggy-styling, in a dark park where the dark come in
Chorus:
It seems to be cars, (and) cash (and) girls (and) head, and manners on the flames better keep your eyes out for them feds
It seems to be phones (and) bling (and) raves (and) weed-pay up what you owe or else them boys will make you bleed
It seems to be DJ's, (and) MC's, (and) Gold rings, (and) Nikes we roll deep for the money we don't want no technicalities
It seems to be love (and) war (and) hate (and) life-harsh life, hustle life, thug life, street life!
