Lyrics

[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 ([?])