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Ok. Ok. So my name is discordant
Words are my thing and my thing’s not important
It swings in my pants like a miniature pendulum
I tell it to the women like it is ‘cos I’m done with them
I’m not here to pull or to pick off the fanny
I’m 35 years old and I live with my Granny
You can think of me all like a short Stephen Merchant
Another octogenarian molesting little pervert
Clinging to the coat-tails of Ricky Gervais
Which puts a piggy little smirk on his little piggy face
You can think of me all as an accidental MC
With a scab on my shoulder and a chip on my knee
The scab comes from shouldering the burdens of the world
The chip from being crap at carpentry. So girls,
Don’t think I’m here to try to get into your pants
I solve equations for a living so you wouldn’t stand a chance
I know how many titties have been padded in this place
I can tell how fucked you are by counting cumlines on your face
I can calculate the shots it takes for you to suck a dick
I can tell because the law of cunt dictates: cute = thick
And lads, while we’re here – you know you’re flirting with disaster
While we’re both eligible bachelors – boys I’m a fuckin master
Don’t think I’m here to try to get down with the kids –
I wouldn’t get too far - and it would be weird if I did –
Yo I’m a bachelor of philosophy and a master of the arts
I’ll deconstruct your verse and leave you nothing for spare parts
Hit me back with something any time you fucking like
You can go and pimp your ride: I’ll pump up the village bike
frankly I could go on rhyming shit all day and freaking night
But I’ll never get away with it of course – because I’m white
I’ll draw it to a close before I say shit I regret. But lastly
Poetry kicks the shit outta hip-hop match, game and set.
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