This is most definitely not Maybach music. This is more like Ford Focus over Manor Top with a blown exhaust music. By two geezers who've got nothing better to do than donuts in the big Tesco car park. Off their tits, pinging ee’s like there's no next week. No license, no insurance, cause they don't give a fuck. And round here, the kids ride crossers us like lunatics while wearing ski masks. Call the police on them and don't make no odds. Cause they know as well as we do that the filth don't give a fuck neither. So round here, we just make do. We get shit done the best we can.

Listen, the people are speaking.

Listen, the tables are turning.

Yeah, listen.

The backlash is coming.

The people are speaking.

The tables are turning.

We get shit done the best we can. Taking over derelict asbestos-ridden shit holes and using them to keep the dream alive.

They never done anything for us before. They ain't gonna do it now.

So we need it. We're build it. We're write it.

We're record it. We're release it the fucking lot. This is DIY to the next level.

Look out, we're coming for you. Eventually, the tables will turn. The city bankers who are pretending to be labels are playing

Russian roulette on TikTok. While we spend every hard-earned penny we've got, making art, not content.

Did you fuckers forget? But just like the stock exchange, it'll all come crashing down. You mugs are on borrowed time. The

People are speaking. Listen, you can hear them now. The people are speaking.

Listen, the people are speaking.

Listen. The tables are turning.

Yeah, listen. The backlash is coming. The people are speaking.

The tables are turning.

Listen, you can hear them now.

They've got a speaking.

Listen, the people are speaking.

Listen, the tables are turning. Yeah, listen.

The backlash is coming. The people are speaking.

The tables are turning.