Poor With £100 Trainers Lyrics & Chords By Skittles

Is it wrong to say I'm not a rapper, not a MC?
Is it right to say that I'm a writer, regardless of the beat?
Regardless of what the media would like you to see me as or lead you into believing—
Don't believe 'em. They'll be leavin' to the heat when they leave us, the heathens.
Peeps say the greedy see green, eat cream from the freezers of the grievers,
And I'm one of them. Dodge 10, changed man, gone again,
Foont of the modern men, it's awful, innit,
What am I meant to make of the many men from my ends who're dead?
Some misled and some dumb, it has to be said,
Use your head. What goes around comes around the playground roundabout, 10 times round, no matter where you be round about.
You know what I'm on about, motormouth, run your mouth, knocked out, move down south,
And I doubt, you ever thought that amount would amount to the bout you had before you left out,
There was hardly an ounce. You were down—I watched a guy stamp your face into the ground,
There was nothing I could do; I would have done it. I was running, guys were coming in the dozens and you had it coming,
Just refused to back down, too proud, fuck it it's nothing,
But guys round here, they just aren't like that. they just ain't like that round here, you don't do that. 'Posed to stay where your crew's at,
Sounds daft, innit, but it's life that. Never been a gang man, I rarely rock a Nike hat,
I wouldn't say I'm the kind of guy you oughta wave your knife at, so put your knife back in your handbag fight pack,
You talk strap talk but where's your valiant bike, I know your type,
Can't sleep without a Valium night cap, cus your conscience is keeping you sidetracked,
Set guys lie flat, flat on the back in a nice flat. TV flat, flat on the wall at the back. Making ‘nough money off the hood runners running the company.
There’s ‘nough money running round the country unaccounted for. Man are in and out of court, fuck filling out the forms.
This is nothing out the norm, this is where I was born. And this is all I know, what I seen, what I saw. You heard it before, and probably never understood it more,
But my scarred mind talks like it’s never been torn. So don’t walk around talking like you’ve never been warned.
I feel stronger every morning, though exhausted, I fall flat on my face at the thought, I was moving forward.
I’ve been walking these streets for 24 years, an orphan, nothing changes round here—
But the students, half of them are repeating. It’s awkward seeing the same faces you knew when you was naughty.
I changed from my bad ways it’s what stays so then trust me. I’m gonna pay for those mistakes, I made her pay for them daily.
You see, just the other day, the police stopped me and my mate—he had an eighth—they gave him 80 pound fine and sent him on his way.
Me? I got nicked and I’m in court on the 25th for a spliff and that’s just how it is.
British criminal justice. What a great way to spend a few grand of the country’s, stop a couple guys getting the munchies, you bunch of monkeys.
I’m living with a bundle of numpties. There must be a whole lot of money in the country to be running round, putting spliffs out, buying MPs second houses out of the town, another few hundred thou’ down.
Getting excess of 60 million of em who bow down. I’m a south bound foul mouth, never learnt my lesson in my adolescence, overly proud, rowdy around town.
Still kinda tryina find a grinder in my dressing gown, and know it’s about pounds not breaking down boundaries,
And how it might sound from a council house scoundrel. Who am I and what do I know?
I ain’t noone, an opinionated debater, debating the batest debates.
I know sometimes I paint my pictures kind of pixelated. Seems I’m fixated with quick ways to be paid.
I gotta make the payments.
This is not famous.
This is not Neighbours.
This is Crime Watch meets Shameless: Poor, With Hundred Pound Trainers.