Текст песни
Yeah, yeah
Life in the fridge
Bruv, that's what's going on mate
It's cold out here, you get me?
London town, how much I rate you
Number one spot, they're in 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 and space
They bide time, draw the blinds and stay cool
Under street cameras that peep the madness
The pressure's nonstop, we release in stanzas
So many closed doors, don't seem open minded
These bright city lights got some folks so blinded
There ain't doubt what the rain clouds align with
High rise flats for the rich to hide in
Safe way above a concrete plot's the real peak
Wonder what she'd have to say if her walls could speak
Things you maybe couldn't perceive with skewed vision
6 Million stories to tell, but who's listening?
London town, big city of dreams
London town, big city of fiends
Shitty stage, think you're living a screenplay
Seems everybody's feeling the squeeze
Everyone wishing that the living was cheap
Same breath, bucking bits, blowing more than they keep
Blocks in they feet, tryna swim through the deep shit
Think they stamina's considered a feat
Everything we spend just benefits the man
How these kids ship product, pen really is a Plan B
Ask yourself, are you really the man, B?
Following the shottas more often than family
People see privilege as a figure of speech
But they eat, they never had to shift a brick on the street
Never had to shift a bit to a fiend for nutrition
6 Million stories to tell, but who's listening?
Is London just property portfolios for tycoons at the rodeo?
The bull is bucking hard like he's seconds from an overdose
The rider isn't overthrown, rider 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 they're caught in for a pretty silver chain
'Til it's dead fish served on a bed of dead fame
Or a 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 sinking 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
6 Million stories to tell but he's sick of 'em
Every man tryna get rich in the land
Lock away twenty grand, fits in my hand
Little London with the chicks and the gangs
When it comes to stories, got 6 million