by george

words, music and vented spleen from george irwell

Fucking. Groove. Yo.

Yasiin Gaye - Ghetto Rock feat. Chuck Berry by amerigomusic

a rhyme masquerading as a freestyle. it’s about getting older and shit, maybe…

laid bare at the ritzy upstairs, brixton, weds 28 may

tracks: verse 1 of bullseye and lucky number kevin

a rhyme about being told how to rhyme


I’m not fulfilling my remit.
That’s goodbye on the tip of your tongue, I can feel it.
And though you may reveal it
To me eventually
The route that you take to honesty
Will be scenic.
I mean it,
I know I have my breakdowns
But when it breaks down
Its because I wear my heart on my sleeve
And you know,
Cos you’ve seen it.
Witnessed it explode into a million pieces,
When I’ve no piece of mind
And my mind turns to faeces,
All I need is some policing of my feelings
When I’m reeling in the midst of these releases.
The clenching of fists
And the tearing of hair,
The falling apart
And the wearing of stare
That burns holes in things,
To the point where you’re choked up
By sharing the air with me.
You’ll no longer have sex with me,
Any advances I forge ineffectually.
I always wanted a girlfriend who is a force intellectually.
But not one who could go head to head with me,
Or better yet get ahead of me…
Don’t call if you’re doing this,
You’re so fucking dead to me.
These shoes I walk in feel weighed down with led to me
And it’s less how you sound and more what you said to me.

a rhyme about not knowing your place in the social hierarchy

G0lden L3aves (lyrics & rough rec.)

Got told to spit lingo
If I wanna win a Brit
And omit a hit single
I do my fing wiv no bling on
Kind of olive skin;
One of my kin born in Indo-nesia
Intrusive media
Mind the flashing lights
My rhymes might induce a seizure
Past twenty-eight
An’ not many late-comers to this craft
It’s gonna be hard graft Just to generate
some interest, now’s the time to invest
I’m coming into my own;
It’s like incest
While you’re pulling up your socks
We’ve got the full kit
Fully qualified
To give a sermon from the pulpit
You can say “this is bullshit”
Better make a strong case
If you’re framing me as the culprit
These ain’t dulcet tones,
This is pitched so high
It reverberates your bones
Makes your skull split
Got told not to rap wiv out attitude
Can’t find my centre
There’s no longitude or latitude
If battered, bruised
Reaching out for a scrap of food,
Still look dapper in the gutter
It dunt matter dude
Self doubting narcissist, nihilist
So idle I’m riled by tiredness
This ain’t old school;
That’s why it’s on your iPod
And not the wireless
I’m too shy on this, where’s the shots?
Give me the wine list
A nice fit - anti-epileptic
No cassette, still in debt;
That’s expected
What I didn’t expect is success
Unless I pen empty threats
Or do my best to get sexist
This ain’t my real voice
We just dubbed it
Still get from A to Z by public means
I never say what I mean
I’m off the subject
Low budget lyrics with limited subtext
Ripe for a remix - dub step
Still ain’t seen my name
On the flyers for the club yet
Still on the periphery of the industry
An’ subsect
Still left hanging on high 5s
With the hoodvets
Got told to rap like a cockerny
So that HMV wants to stock me
I’m picking up the accent by proxy
Less Chris Eccleston more Bob Hosky
Beat’s got me hot - flow frosty
Toh stirring up a revolution - Trotsky
You wanna book us both? Woah costly
Song needs a pop hook? No you’ve lost me

(to hear the rough recording go to:


Old enuff to know better
Low cheddar, no show
Go getter in a chokehold
Flow cold, no sweater

Young enuff to still spit
Quill tip spills quips
Skill’s ill, Bill Hicks
Tills hit a mill, sick

© 2013 Alex Rogerson (Author). All rights reserved.