Bad Hair Day (Master Peace, Bliss & Saint P Send)

Yeah, how is man gonna spit
A Grandmaster Flash bar on a grime set?
Man grabbed mic and got booed off in five secs
Argue, sort out your boy, he's a live mess
Man can't mob on my set, man can't mob on my set
I said man can't mob on my set
Sound like a knob on my set if you turned up
Man like X won't make a man turn up
You're an L plate in a tracksuit
Couldn't give a shit for this gassed up black yout
I don't wanna hear no talk about trapsuit
Dipping out Radar in the same grey tracksuit
Don't man rate you? Don't man back you?
Don't spend my time on Twitter, 'bout @ you
Catfish, go and eat fish and cat food
Lyrical force gonna left-hand slap you
Slap off that durag
You never see man without the durag
Without the durag, man are like "who's that?"
Bald out Bliss, alopecia'll do that
Tryna convince man that you do trap
Dumb 'fro stuck to your head like Blu-Tack
Blu-Tacking is not helping your durag
Someone take that shit off for the banter
Better off doing that in front of the camera
Probably covering nits and dandruff
Bliss had trouble with nits and dandruff
Best buss on his head, brudda, that's mad stuff
If his hair grew [?] mad tough
And mad tough, it would look like
Hahahahaha to your ring work
Can't come set with buss on your shirt, mate
Or you can wear a hat
For the rest of your life like Saint P
Looking like he just broke free from slavery
That's probably all the hype talk 'bout chains
Passed your driving test? Stay in your lane cuh
This ain't the same as three years back
Talk 'bout my piercing, go and get a new joke
While you're at it, go clip your ears back
You monkey
Winter season, start rocking the North Face jacket
Spitting on grime, though
Dead bars, coming like the longest typo
How can you not blaze? Looking like you're fried, you bush man
Manage yourself with the typo
Juggling music and a bad hairdo
Scared man? Brudda, my man don't fear you
Look, Master P-E-A-C-E, you're so shit
You're shit, you're shit, you're shit, you're shit
You're shit, you're shit, you're shit, you're shit
You're shit, you're shit, you're shit, you're shit
Show him the way to the chopper
'Cause his visa isn't proper
Show him the way to the chopper
Doesn't Daddy give you pounds, son?
Can't find dollars in this town, son
I ain't digging on your sound, son
But I take it, flip it 'cause it sounds fun
I don't see no rounds, son
You ain't tryna hear round one
Lose your voice and mime and clown, cunt
Another tracksuit? You ain't found one
All that trapping and no pounds?