[Hook: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire, full chest] Finish one song, then talk to me Eleven years tuning and it's still in G You say real music takes blood and years Bring me one finished song and I'm all ears [Verse 1: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire bars over eski bleeps] Every comment you leave is a paragraph deep Says my tunes got no soul and the work come cheap Says real music is calluses, vans and sweat Ten winters in the cold and a mountain of debt So I clicked on your name just to hear what you made Found a band in a lock-up with the shutter half raised Four lads and a banner and a logo in black Eleven years of rehearsal and there's not one track Not a demo, not a voice note, not a verse on a phone Just a photo of you tuning in a lock-up alone You been tuning that guitar since the day I began And you're telling me I'm not a real musician, fam? [Hook: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire, full chest] Finish one song, then talk to me Eleven years tuning and it's still in G You say real music takes blood and years Bring me one finished song and I'm all ears [Verse 2: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire, sharper] So I rang up the club, said I'm bringing a band Put your name on the flyer in the font that you planned Half eight, you're on first, forty minutes, all yours Full room, proper sound, and a queue out the doors You turned up at seven with a van full of gear Had a row with the drummer 'cause the snare wasn't clear Then you tuned, and you tuned, and you tuned it again Said the monitor's wrong, said the room's wrong, and then Forty minutes of soundcheck with the crowd on their phones Bassist asking for a towel while the bar staff groans Then you counted it in and you played half a verse Stopped dead, told the crowd that the chorus needs work [Bridge: Rapid-fire London male MC, garage-band beat switch, sloppy thrash under him] Check, check, one two, little more in the wedge Drummer wants a towel and the bassist's on edge Hold on, hold on, gotta tune it again Hold on, hold on, eleven years, my friend Check, check, one two, can we take it from the top Eleven years at the top, mate, the top's all you got [Verse 3: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire, grime slams back in] Thirty-one seconds, that's the length of your set Eleven years in the making and you still owe the rest Then I walked on after you and I ran it for an hour Twenty songs start to finish, every chorus at full power Now you're back in my comments saying soul can't be rushed Mate, you rushed off the stage with your face all flushed Same club next month, I'll give you the slot again Finish one song, bruv, and you can talk to me then [Final Hook: Rapid-fire London male MC, rapid-fire, full chest] Finish one song, then talk to me Eleven years tuning and it's still in G You say real music takes blood and years Bring me one finished song and I'm all ears [End]
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