Chateaux in Toulouse - Jam Baxter, Dirty Dike, Dabbla

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