[Intro]
Yeah, yeah
Life in the fridge
Bruv, that's what's going on, mate
It's cold out here, you get me
[Verse 1]
London town, how much I rate you
Number one spot, they run a rush to fake you
Never really know where she wants to take you
Cold-hearted bitch, I love and hate you
The city where the grind equates to knife crime
In spates they buy time, draw they blinds, and stay cool
On the street cameras that peep the madness
The pressure's non-stop, we releasing stanzas
So many closed doors, cause we open-minded
These bright city lights 'cause some folks are blinded
They raped out what the rain clouds are lined with
High-rise flats for the rich to hide in
Safe way above our concrete plots, the real peak
Wonder what she'd have to say if our walls could speak
Things you maybe couldn't perceive with skewed vision
Six million stories to tell but who's listening?
[Bridge]
(It's a London thing)
(It's a London thing)
[Verse 2]
London town, big city of dreams
London town, big city of fiends
Share the stage, think you're living a screenplay
Seems everybody's feeling the squeeze
Everyone wishing that the liver was cheap
Same breath, bucket piss, blowing more than they keep
Blocks on they feet, tryna scrimp for the deep shit
Fiend, they stabbing us, consider defeat
Everything we spend just benefits the man
How these kids shift product, pam really is a Plan B
Ask yourself, are you really the man, B?
Hollering at shottas more often than family
People say privilege is a figure of speech
But to eat, they never had to shift a prick on the street
Never had to shift a bit to a fiend for nutrition
Six million stories to tell but who's listening?
[Bridge]
(It's a London thing)
([?])
(It's a London thing)
[Verse 3]
Is London just property portfolios for tycoons at the rodeo?
The bull is bucking hard like he's seconds from an overdose
The rider it isn't overthrown, rather holds his form
Rider's had the structures on his side since he was born
Big fish, little fish, fighting for a name
Mistake the net that caught him for a pretty silver chain
'Til he's dead fish served on the bread of dead fame
At buffet for the bankers, more champagne
Meanwhile, eyes glistening
Kids throwing acid in the faces of delivery men
Anything to get a little something for the bigger man
A small sink in sand
Now he's dangling from the hook, lips ripped to bits
But he's still spitting blood, back up at the fisherman
Eyes swivelling, saying I'm not giving in
Six million stories to tell, but he's sick of 'em
[Bridge]
(It's a London thing)
([?])
Man tryna get rich in the line
All the way, twenty grand, face it man
There's a line down where they're chasing the guys
When it comes to stories about six million
Everyman tryna get rich in the line
All the way, twenty grand, face it man
There's a line down where they're chasing the guys
When it comes to stories about six million
([?])
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