[Intro - Spoken, British Accent] Two sugars. No, three. It's fucking boiling. And that bastard's looking at me funny. [Verse 1 - Aggressive Double-Time Rap] I'm sat in a sweatbox, neck locked, jaw set, Fan full of dust doing fuck-all but threat, Kettle's got scale and the coffee tastes vile, Been sweating me bollocks off for the best part of a mile. Scooter horns scream while the street rearranges, Crow on a wire tearing crisp packets to shambles, Dog in the doorway couldn't give half a toss, Monkey on the awning like it owns the fucking shop. Grinding me teeth to the rhythm of rattles, Head full of ganja, nerves coming untravelled, Don't want enlightenment, don't need a guru, Just want one fucking cup without some prick telling me what to do. [Verse 2 - Faster Flow, Dense Internal Rhymes] Tick in the temple, the tremor's electrical, Rhythm's irregular, temper's forgettable— No, fuck that, the temper's volcanic, Syllables split while the bass goes manic. Red dust settles on the rim of the table, Crow gives me looks like it's perfectly able To tell I'm a tourist, to tell I'm annoyed, To tell my whole sense of self is a toy. Cow in the traffic, not bothered at all, Bicycle threading through impossible walls, Six plastic chairs balanced over some bloke, I'm nursing espresso and breathing in smoke. I'm a primate in trousers pretending I'm different, Phone full of nonsense, brain full of ganja, Clutching a cup like it's proof I'm in charge, Stupid little ritual dressed up as a badge. [Pre-Chorus - Building Shouts] BURN THE ROAST BLACK! LET THE FAN BELT SNAP! WHO THE FUCK PUT THE MILK IN THE SUN?! [Chorus - Gang Vocals, Explosive] BURN THE ROAST BLACK! LET THE WHOLE STREET RATTLE! CAME FOR A COFFEE, GOT CAUGHT IN THE BATTLE! BITTER ON THE TONGUE! HOT BLOOD IN THE NECK! NO PEACE, NO QUIET, NO FUCKING RESET! [Verse 3 - Technical Double-Time, Aggressive UK Grime Cadence] Mechanical, cynical, physically miserable, Head full of noise and a temper that's biblical, Table's unstable, the saucer's got cracks, Macaque inspecting the seams of me bag. It's not even theft, it's a fucking assessment, Small hairy auditor checking investments, Clocks my expression, my cheap imitation Of confidence built on a caffeine ration. I look at the monkey, the monkey looks back, Two creatures with habits and holes in the plan, I'm clutching me coffee like some sort of prize, It's staring straight through me with criminal eyes. Then the crow drops a shell on the roof like a snare, For half of a second there's peace in the air— Then a horn goes off and some prick starts shouting, Fan drops a screw and the bastard starts smoking! [Breakdown - Half-Time, Guttural Shouts] I DON'T NEED A SIGN! I DON'T NEED A REASON! I NEED THIS FUCKING FAN TO SURVIVE THE SEASON! NO FUCKING WISDOM! NO CLEAN CONCLUSION! BURNT-BEAN BREATH AND A HEAT-STRUCK FUSION! [Spoken - Sudden Silence] Who put the fucking milk in the sun? [Verse 4 - Maximum-Speed Double-Time Rap] Kick's double-tapping, the snare's out of phase, Counting the cracks in the wall like a wage, City won't pause for a bloke with a grudge, Swallows your plans then demands that you budge. Lizard on plaster, kite in a tree, Life going on with fuck-all to do with me, Neck what's left, let the bitter shit settle, Bass in me ribs like a fistful of metal. No grand revelation, no moment of grace, Just sweat on me lip and a blank fucking face, Cup hits the saucer, the saucer goes clack, I turn round, sling me battered bag on me back. Monkey comes back with a piece of me receipt. Little prick. Fair play. It's a fucking nice beat. [Final Chorus - Full Band, Gang Shouts] BURN THE ROAST BLACK! LET THE WHOLE STREET RATTLE! CAME FOR A COFFEE, GOT CAUGHT IN THE BATTLE! BITTER ON THE TONGUE! HOT BLOOD IN THE NECK! NO PEACE, NO QUIET, NO FUCKING RESET! [Outro - Spoken, Dry British Delivery] Three sugars next time. Actually, fuck it. Tea.
