Patrick, 17, 1997nAkira The Don, 16, just moved from living in Wales on my own,nTo Redditch with my man's sisternBut I dissed her, moved outnLodging with this ex-drug addict called Sharon and Sharon's baby daughternI couldn't afford tonPay the 60 bar rentnSo I thought that I'd better get a little bit bentnBy which I mean crooked.nCriminal, sometimes sorta like a animalnTheiving, leaving greiving women and,nMatter of factlynAlso for a while I worked in factoriesnOne made boxes, one made bits of cars, one made locksnAnd one made food for Little ChefnThe people, rude, would regularly defecatenIn the sauces, I packed the stuff in boxes, 12 hour shift and they're freezing me, beer and beating some geezer.nAnyway, Patrick, Nirvana obsessivenShoulder length bleached blonde hair and a speed habbitnHe sang lead in a band called AuroranThey used to tour a bit around the MidlandsnI met Patrick outside Our Price on the stepsnSat next to the rest of the greasersnWe took speed that EasternFor the first timenWe did the first rap outside, out back, of the Kingfisher Shopping CentrenThat was that.nCatch me round his flat, smoking crap butt end roll upsnWe'd stay up all weeknFour am, we'd walk the streets collecting dirty nubsnJust a pair of dirty scrubs.nPatrick needed lots of love, an only child without a DadnHe had a mother, but she hadnGone a bitnMad.nShe was sad - her boyfriend burnt her house down while she was insidenAnd left her bleeding from her head, for dead.nHe had a knife she saidnShe had a life she saidnAnd Patrick nearly had a wifenAnd Patrick nearly took his lifenI found him bleeding on the railway bridge,nOutside, five minutes from The CrossnWe took him to the hospitalnSpittle flecked his chinnAnd he sprayed nBlood over the desk when they checked him in.nI left him in,nAnd I went home, on my ownnFashioned me a microphone, out of headphonesnI felt like that bit when Father Ted phoned Father WhatshisfacenI can't remembernBut I remembernOne September, or was it August?nI took Pat back to my Mam's housenIn North Wales.nGales, cliffs and stony beaches, Patrick's not for speechesnBut his face beseechesnWhy wasn't I raised here?nSheep and cows and deer, instead of child abuse and fearnI might have shed a tearnBut within a yearnI was fucking his ex - what'd you expect?nHe took the piss - that was then and this is now.nWe both did things that were wrong and ugly,nStole and I lied,nAnd I didn't ever expect him to do what he did to menOr me to himnThen againnAnd againnAnd I never knew you could do that with a friend or do that to a friendnCold, controlling, plotting, begotten and rotten to the corenCan't see a soul no morenWhat's it all for...nShut the door, pass the draw, pick the crumbs up off the floornDrink the dregs, drown the voices in your head.nI'd kind of like to go to bed, but it's gotten light,nInstead I'll hang on to the nightnAnd draw the curtain.nWho says that stuff has to worsen?nPat's a nursenAnd I am Akira The Don.