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for the haters - dirty diggers lyrics

[verse 1: pat stash]
they say the hole, is much more than the sum of the parts
that’s why the man, is much more than the sum of his past
we came a long way, to make it this far
and you’re faking your hard
i’m in the gutter, with my eyes on the stars
face this, i found a basis for your hatred
back to basics, max make that breaks shapeshift
i laced it, with a cyanide diatribe
i need the cash, for a higher prize
blinded liars, i enlight the night sky like a firefly
with fly fire, live from the highest tribe
stained paper with a paper, matе
f*ck a namesake, i’m bad faith
in the quеst for page and self*deceive, i bet your fees
best believe, biters get briefed king up the st**z
never been a fashion victim
hacks get dissed in between the lines, your crew sticked in

[verse 2: young max]
yeah, my name’s max, find me by the cheap crates
this is for the haters, who thought i had weak breaks
now i speak for the cheapskates
i make fire with beatscapes, with waxed plastic heapsates[?]
i beat fakes with a briefcase of beat tapes
rhyme for the sake of my soft*hearted street mates
i seek sp*ce to survive on the weak rigs
paid to dirt workers, lurking in police states
we’re all broke, we all hate cheaps, mate
a lot of waiting, ‘cos i know how long peace takes
love from the street light, we’re hugging the pavement
all stone crazy, raving in the bas*m*nt
one ear to the concrete, hear the drums thunder us
come we drum some funds up with a plunder bus
we’re so high, even number one’s under us
what we under, stunning drum conjure us
[verse 3: pat stash]
stash the black plastic haze, raps in silver skins
heads shivering, feel it when they listening
this ain’t luck, it’s a labour of love
and getting paid is a must, but we ain’t paying for trust
out of touch friends, i still hold close
in the rain with a cold nose
blaze a hot zoot in a dope pose
a rich man in porpoise clothes
but then you all were clones, i speak in awkward tones
be brave, cain’s the mariner
rake the challenger, asleep late, face the manager
until the mic serves a purpose as a therapist’s chair
i’m heavily scared and stumble forth unaware
punching the air, i pre*arrange victory
and maintain a love and avoid the void of sympathy
f*ck the industry, i wrote a symphony
for disenfranchised franchise workers in the six cities

[verse 4: young max]
yeah, i’m a die*car, wearing primark
juiced up in leeds, passed out in hyde park
spitting random letters like i read at ichart
shouting most these artists, never tried art
rock from halifax, the one stood flats
writing battle raps on the backs, of west yorkshire travel maps
bunning zoots down back alleys with cali cats
all my scallies inhabit shabby habitats
sipping warm beers, in cold council flats
cats who can’t afford to pay their council tax
still on rallies with bare aggie anoraks
baggy pants and apple mac tracker tracks
a lot of lads up north wanna batter max
it dunt matter, can’t see him through the cataracts
stony broke, chatting frath, making fatter wags
matter of fact, i got a sack of these dapper rags
[chorus]
f*ck the philistines, get our hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up
yeah, f*ck the philistines, get the hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up

[verse 5: young max & pat stash]
yeah, psychedelic relic of a bygone age
i survive on rage and getting live on stage
more than a pastime, but for the last time
i fill the bars with metaphors and half rhymes
f*ck the powers that be, listen to hours of me
chatting very little sense about how things should be
i lost patience with the faceless info overload
tanked up, low paid and holy gloved
yeah, dirty like bath water after a day labouring
we’re the real realness, you’re just artificial flavouring
minimum wage earner, p.s. the page turner
the best get paid, earner, the best you ain’t heard of
self*righteous rioters who get right rioters
some russes in the back, your company try quiet us
the pages are blank canvas
bless any mic you hand us
and plus the whole clan dies
tagging up a panda car in kandahar
from havana to zanzibar, we know who the fans are
all them mans with their hands in the jam jar
the show’s rammed from savannah to a cram bar
[chorus]
f*ck the philistines, get our hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up
f*ck the philistines, get the our hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up
f*ck the philistines, get your hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up
f*ck the philistines, get your hands up
we write the illest rhymes, we need to stand up

[outro]
beat up the scene like an active volcano
take you out with one blow

- dirty diggers lyrics

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