[Intro: Bloke] Oi, mate! You ain’t heard nothin’ like this, bruv, It’s Bloke, the geezer who’s proper chuffed. Get lost, you mugs! The end’s near for them flash twats, London: Razor and Steel, You get me? The madness is real. Nuclear vibes, we’re settin’ the deal, It’s Bloke and the Mob, It’s Bloke and the Mob, It’s Bloke and the Mob. [Verse 1: Danny-Mob] Sip of flat water, the cup ain’t dry, The game’s been sussed, the maths don’t lie. One in a hundred will scrap to the end, I’m still here, waitin’ for that crimson blend. Sat back, sparked up, spat at the screen in rage, Them pricks were singin’, lined up by age. Big-name fakers, so-called stars, Young wannabes—time to raise the bars. Smashin’ it down, We’re mashin’ up anyone who won’t bow down. Dress code for this rave? Oakwood fists, I was sortin’ the green while you powdered your wrist. Your neck’s in a noose, mate, Your career’s lookin’ proper bait. I’ll rip them rings off with a swift backhand, Your rotten gob’s gettin’ stitched, understand? Start breakin’ teeth, save for them caps, Ditch the Rolex and scarper to your lass. [Chorus: Danny-Mob, (Bloke), Mikey-Mob] This is a smack in the face for them posh wankers, End of their stories, no more fake blabbers. Puff, beat, and bass, I’m proper smashed, That’s enough from you lot, shut your trap fast. (This is a smack in the face for them posh wankers) End of their stories, no more fake blabbers (Puff, beat, and bass, I’m proper smashed) That’s enough from you lot... [Verse 2: Bloke] Lined up tight, the heroes of our time, Wankers in furs, rollin’ in whips to their prime. On telly and radio, they chat pure shite, I’m drownin’ these flash pricks like strays in the night. Straight to the charts, jam ‘em in playlists, Don’t care if they don’t know rap, they’re brainless. What’s a star need? Just a cameo glow, Their album’s pure crap, but who cares, innit though? Kids clockin’ tags on their garms, Their birds next to ‘em, eyein’ up bags. What kinda thoughts you got for these slags? Who’s got the flashiest label? Mate, they’re all dags! I bring the pain, neckin’ the booze, Bruv, dodge the feds, keep your cool, don’t lose. Salt in your wounds, oi, you pop scene mugs, Your head’s full of nothin’ but cheap-arse shrugs. What you want, fam? You can’t knock me off, Ain’t blood in my veins, it’s... I seen the quiet storm of Thames-side dunes, Your knees are shakin’, bruv, leg it to the loo. Ship’s off the drift, it’s judgment day, Buckets of junk, with birds in the fray. Enough with the antics, the madness is done, Molotov vibes—it’s Bloke and the Mob.
