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They dug the shade of his mop, |
|
They liked the way that he spoke, |
|
They flew him out of the sticks, |
|
And out him up in the smoke, |
|
They gave him chocolate and cheese, |
|
They told him he was the next, |
|
Young son to some young life, |
|
Straight from the crest, |
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The way he spat at his mic, |
|
His lyrics couldn't be fresher, |
|
They said he'd be a superstar, |
|
If he could handle the pressure, |
|
After they put it to paper, |
|
They took him to tea, |
|
And told him just a couple changes, |
|
That they wanted to see |
|
Oh what a shame, |
|
But it's easy, can't you see? |
|
What a shame, |
|
That they won't ever let you be. |
|
They said his hair would be better, |
|
If he coloured it black, |
|
And that he wouldn't sound as harsh if he could tone it all back, |
|
They dressed him up in a craze, |
|
To make him look pretty, |
|
They said the kids would dig, |
|
If he looked like he came from the city, |
|
They listened back to his cut, |
|
His music was tight, |
|
But if he changed a couple lyrics, |
|
In the chorus it might, |
|
Sound fresher than ever, |
|
A radio hit, |
|
And all the ladies will sing it, |
|
When they get into the pit. |
|
Oh what a shame, |
|
But it's easy, can't you see? |
|
What a shame, |
|
That they won't ever let you be. |
