[Scottish folk singer with conversational spoken-word rap delivery, uk rap style flow, storytelling, mid-tempo UK garage-influenced beat mixed with subtle folk elements, accordion, soft waves and distant harbour sounds, dry reflective tone, intimate and gritty] [Verse 1 - relaxed storytelling, spoken-sung, building imagery of small-town life, steady mid-tempo beat] Grew up in a wee scheme, two streets and a shop that’s always shut, Rain on the harbour wall, council houses, same faces every cut. Mates on bikes, kicking a burst ball against the kirk door, Dreaming bigger but the biggest dream was just getting to the Co-op for more. Da worked the creels till his hands looked like old rope, Ma said “stay local son, the sea will claim you like it claimed your uncle Jock.” But the dole queue’s longer than the pier on a Sunday, And the only jobs left are stacking shelves or praying for fair Monday. [Chorus - slightly more melodic and anthemic, heartfelt emphasis, rising energy with light accordion swell] So it’s either Glasgow or the boats, mate, pick your poison slow, City lights or the North Sea bite, both will strip you to the bone. I’m nineteen, no trade, just a mouth to feed at home, Either chase the work in the big smoke or let the waves take me whole. [Verse 2 - tighter flow, more urgent delivery, city grit in the voice, beat stays steady with added urban percussion] Packed a bag with three hoodies and a half-bottle of Buckie, Train to Queen Street, heart banging like the bass in a scheme party. Glasgow swallows you quick, Central Station smell of grease and piss, Dodging neds and suits, looking for a site that needs a pair of hands, quick. First job was digging trenches in the rain on the South Side, Boss man from Edin-boro, talking down like we’re still in the Dark Ages. Flats with no hot water, sharing a room with a Lithuanian lad, Counting coins for chips and a can, wondering if this is all I’ll ever have. [Verse 3 - raw and intense, sea imagery with heavier emotion, slight vocal grit, building tension before final chorus] Or there’s the boats – Da’s way, four weeks at sea, force eight gales, Puking over the rail while the skipper’s screaming “haul them nets, you wee fail!” Black waves crashing like the city traffic but colder, twice as mean, Coming home with a wage packet and a cough that never leaves your lungs clean. Either way you’re trading one cage for another, small town boredom for big town grind, Miss the quiet pier at dusk but the quiet never paid the bills, mind. So I’m spitting bars in my head on the night bus back from the yard, Still that same wee laddie, just with harder hands and a slightly bigger scar. [Chorus - bigger and more emotional this time, full heartfelt delivery, stronger accordion and backing layers] So it’s either Glasgow or the boats, mate, pick your poison slow, City lights or the North Sea bite, both will strip you to the bone. I’m nineteen, no trade, just a mouth to feed at home, Either chase the work in the big smoke or let the waves take me whole. [Outro - slowing down, more folk-singer introspection, sparse beat fading into accordion and waves, reflective and resigned] One day I might find a middle way, something in between, But right now it’s either concrete or saltwater in my veins, you know what I mean? From the wee scheme to wherever the work is, we go, Scottish hearts, battered but still beating, steaming in the Glasgow snow.
