Before they drag my past up
like they’ve found a buried bone,
let me save them all the digging,
I’ll show the ugly on my own.
I weren’t born clean and gentle,
with soft hands and polished shoes,
I came up round damage,
so damage was what I knew.
I sold resin as a young lad,
then moved into other gear,
not smack, not crack,
even I had lines I wouldn’t clear.
Still, I sold poison,
made cash from someone’s pain,
put misery in pockets
and called it just a game.
I was angry before shaving,
fire sitting in my chest,
walking round like life owed me
for the things I never confessed.
Cars got twocced for laughter,
bikes vanished in the night,
fights started over nothing,
just to feel my blood ignite.
Sixteen through to thirty,
that weren’t youth, that was war,
me kicking through the world
then wondering why my fists were sore.
I weren’t a hard man,
let’s get that said today,
hard men don’t need to prove it
in the stupid ways I’d play.
But ruthless?
Yeah, I’ll own that.
I had that bit in me.
The bit that smiles too calmly
when most men want to leave.
I taxed drug dealers too,
not cos I was Robin Hood,
just bad men taking from bad men
in streets that understood.
I called it rules and survival,
called it pride and having balls,
but the truth sounds different
when the night goes quiet and calls.
I never raised a hand to women,
never bullied kids or weak,
but I’ve found men who did that
and made it hard for them to speak.
There was one smackhead bastard
who beat my mum and hers,
so weekly he got visits
from the monster I deserved.
That sounds twisted when it’s written,
I know how rough that lands,
but when you’ve watched women suffer,
you stop listening with your hands.
And yeah, the pool cue story,
let’s not leave that behind,
I put one where the sun don’t shine
for robbing women blind.
Sixty years old and frightened,
that picture lit the fuse,
some men only learn respect
when pain walks in the room.
I’m not saying I was righteous,
I’m not making filth look class,
but I bet he thought twice after
before touching another lass.
I’ve dotted cigs on skin,
seen fear crawl up a face,
punched until my knuckles split
and still not found my place.
I’ve done things I’m not proud of,
and some I thought were right,
because back then I called it justice
when I was really built from fight.
I had morals in the madness,
stupid as that sounds,
a code scratched into concrete
while my life was going down.
Don’t touch women.
Don’t hurt kids.
Don’t prey on the old.
Don’t lie to my face
then act like you’re bold.
That was my religion,
not holy, not clean,
just street level law
from a lad too full of steam.
The police knew my name,
so did half the bloody town,
some feared what I carried,
some smiled when I calmed down.
My history isn’t hidden,
it’s not locked behind a door,
it stands in old stories
with blood marks on the floor.
So if fame ever finds me
and people come with knives,
trying to cut me open
with chapters from old lives,
save your breath, I know it.
I was there when it was done.
I was that angry little bastard
who confused fear with fun.
I won’t stand here crying,
saying life made me that way,
but childhood leaves fingerprints
on every debt you pay.
I carried things too early,
then made others carry mine,
that’s the part that sits heavy
when the house goes quiet at night.
Because yeah, I sold poison,
and yeah, I brought pain,
and no clever wording
can wash that clean again.
But I also raised three kids,
stood up when men ran,
learnt how to hold a home
with two battered working hands.
I became the single parent,
the one who stayed and fought,
turned the madness into lessons
that life itself had taught.
I’m older now, more measured,
less likely to explode,
but don’t mistake calm water
for a man who lost the road.
That old Chris still lives in me,
I keep him locked away,
he drinks coffee in the morning
and whispers shit all day.
Most times I ignore him,
tell him sit down, behave,
but some days life rattles bars
and he starts picking at the cage.
I don’t want to be him.
I won’t pretend I do.
But I’d be lying through my teeth
if I said he never pulls through.
I’m a decent man with damage,
not some polished saint in light,
I’ve got a heart made out of gold
and fists that remember fights.
I’ll help a stranger up,
give my last if someone’s stuck,
then turn ice cold in a second
if you try and hurt what I love.
That’s the truth, not branding,
not a sob story for applause,
just a bloke with dirty pages
and a better set of laws.
So bring my past up loudly,
go on, have your little go,
I’ve already walked through fire
wearing shoes made out of smoke.
I won’t deny the monster,
I won’t beg to look clean,
I’m the man who built a cage
for the worst parts of me.
And if you judge me by old blood,
old streets, old rage, old shame,
remember this before you speak,
I changed,
but I never changed my name.