I feel like an overseer of poetry, being most poets are sht/
Sitting silent like a terror-cell, until I expose em for their lip
Running rings like a carousel, til the point they are sick/
It's at this point they ask for help, or just cry like a btch
I've been through Hell from a child, hence my smile isn't big/
Unlike my smirk, which tends to irk, those who hurt from my ink
Loose lips will sink ships, as will what I pen onto this page/
Telling fibs is for fibbers, and that's why I use truths to erase
I've been a slave since a youth, under the roof of Number Eight/
So ain't no use, looking truth, from those whose truth they can't face
I've been hated since a baby, the day my mother tried drown me/
They say blood is thicker than water, then where the f*ck is my family
I come from The Home of the TOWIE, though that place ain't my home/
Home is where I lay my head, and where I lay my head is unknown
I could never be a dead clone, of somebody else who has failed/
As there's been no hope for mankind, ever since Jesus was nailed.
