It ain't about tea and biscuits. I'm one of those English misfits.
I don't drink tea I drink spirits, and I talk a lot of slang in my lyrics.
There goes a horse, horses for courses, nah more like corpses on corners,
And Staffordshire Bull Terriers and late night crawlers.
Police carry guns not truncheons, make your own assumptions.
London ain't all crumpets and trumpers, it's one big slum pit.
We ain't all posh like the queen, we ain't all squeaky clean,
Now do the Tony Blair, throw your hands int the air now everywhere,
We ain't all squeaky clean, we ain't all posh like the queen,
Now do the Tony Blair, throw your hands in the air now everywhere,
This is the picture I painted my low down, this my London that I call my home town,
It's where I'm living and this is my low down,
This is my England I'm letting you know now!
No I don't watch the Antiques Roadshow, I'd rather listen to Run the Road.
And smoke someone's fresh homegrown,
And not get bloated on a plate of scones,
Cricket, bowls, croquet, nah PS2 all the way, in an English coucil apartment,
We don't all wear bowler hats and hire servants.
More like 24 hour surveillance and dog sh*t on the pavements
Big up Oliver Twist, letting us know the nitty gritty of what London really is,
It ain't all pretty, deal with the realness, it's all gritty, deal with the realness.
Ohh the changing of the Queen's guard, that's nothing for me to come out of the house for,
Tra la la, I'd rather sit on my arse,
And have a glass of Chardonnay, nah,
We ain't all Bridget Jones clones, who say pardon me
More like gwanin mate. You get me...