Wot you call it? Urban? Each night here there’s a show,
Man’s on … he’s gonna get that money he’s owed,
Every night a different fight, at the bus stop on Uxbridge Road.
Blue northern lights, blinded by, sparked-up and glowed
against flammable cladding. 2-step? Newsagent bloke, built like a shit load
of bricks, holds each skull 2 steps away, he talks a London code.
It’s a London thing. Are you mad? Drinking in the West End.
Vodka knockouts in Lemonade cups with Mackie-D’s straws to bend
and chew down, save for the urinal tops, pub cash to spend (pow!)
Jump the bus from here, or hop in Tony’s new motor,
It’s an SR Nova, he’s a stoner, joker, smoker, (or get on the Northern Line),
The sirens are calling, well your mother did warn yer.
Westfield shoppers and footy fans brawling,
Drunkards and QPR (has it come to this?) stalling
the flow of traffic, it’s shutdown on this street. Falling
inside extensions of fried chicken, proper garage girl witty,
“ring ring pussy,” they bait as he slows, tries to play pretty
but no shades, nothing comes between me and my city.