London by Craft-D Lyrics
What's happened to London?
My home's a wrecking.
In this city, where ethnicity's a zonal blessing
Once was a place of poem and setting,
People roaming, stepping, in Roman dwellings
Like the flow and ebbing of Otis Redding
Soulful - now just clones, just stones for stepping
some throw the stones, and moan rebelling
Most lone with phones, these drones for betting
As technology advances but there's no progressing.
Just morphing.
Everybody wants more things, more things,
more addictive than morphine,
probably buy a bigger pad if they had more fin-
gers, room for more rings meaning more flings.
They just want more things, no more thinking,
models for role models like a more-thin-king,
They want to be the more king like Othello
With a page from Iago's notes, more strings to the cello
But this isn't the city of Shakespeare's plays,
it's more like Orwell's stories, strifed and lifeless.
A comedy of errors not quite as you'd like it,
there's no more love now labour's lost it's leftness,
the shrews in charge aren't tame their plots are wreckless
What's happened to London?
I find a house not home,
in a state I'm an agent out alone,
speak before think, mouth to dome,
as I pity the city without a poem.
In a land of sheep and flock of lies,
people only care for profit-size,
It's crossed the line, left on a cross to die,
there's nothing left to prophesize.
So I'm standing on Westminster Bridge,
asking what are my words worth?
Those around me overwhelmed with a fantasized feel it's
a vandalized steel pit,
I'm a frantic eyed realist,
no romantic idealist.
More like Lear on the heath with a tear on his cheek,
the piers of the fleet now cleared by the streets,
why can't the fear and the grief disappear in a heap?
What's happened to London?
Street lights at steep heights, but a fading lightness.
Once a place full of brightness, a state for the righteous,
good days and politeness turned to hatred and vices.
Now residential life is an existential crisis.
Paying presidential prices, so prevalent is strife, it's
ridiculous, meticulously planned devices
to keep you unaware when the lies hit.
But when prole and formal juxtapose,
I don't conform I just oppose,
and it takes more than just a pose,
we need to act,
and just suppose we did.
Suppose that flustered drones in clustered homes adjusted their lackluster bones,
and mustered up the guts and trust to fight the uppercrust and thrones.
They say the world's our oyster, take our liberty to travel
I need to have an atlas, hoist her, all the mysteries unraveled.
I've been writing this from the capital's eye
Watching captain's of capitalism capitalize
And decapitate with captions in capital lettered lies
And to cap it off the capsizing capital cries:
What's happened to London?
My home's a wrecking.
My home's a wrecking.
In this city, where ethnicity's a zonal blessing
Once was a place of poem and setting,
People roaming, stepping, in Roman dwellings
Like the flow and ebbing of Otis Redding
Soulful - now just clones, just stones for stepping
some throw the stones, and moan rebelling
Most lone with phones, these drones for betting
As technology advances but there's no progressing.
Just morphing.
Everybody wants more things, more things,
more addictive than morphine,
probably buy a bigger pad if they had more fin-
gers, room for more rings meaning more flings.
They just want more things, no more thinking,
models for role models like a more-thin-king,
They want to be the more king like Othello
With a page from Iago's notes, more strings to the cello
But this isn't the city of Shakespeare's plays,
it's more like Orwell's stories, strifed and lifeless.
A comedy of errors not quite as you'd like it,
there's no more love now labour's lost it's leftness,
the shrews in charge aren't tame their plots are wreckless
What's happened to London?
I find a house not home,
in a state I'm an agent out alone,
speak before think, mouth to dome,
as I pity the city without a poem.
In a land of sheep and flock of lies,
people only care for profit-size,
It's crossed the line, left on a cross to die,
there's nothing left to prophesize.
So I'm standing on Westminster Bridge,
asking what are my words worth?
Those around me overwhelmed with a fantasized feel it's
a vandalized steel pit,
I'm a frantic eyed realist,
no romantic idealist.
More like Lear on the heath with a tear on his cheek,
the piers of the fleet now cleared by the streets,
why can't the fear and the grief disappear in a heap?
What's happened to London?
Street lights at steep heights, but a fading lightness.
Once a place full of brightness, a state for the righteous,
good days and politeness turned to hatred and vices.
Now residential life is an existential crisis.
Paying presidential prices, so prevalent is strife, it's
ridiculous, meticulously planned devices
to keep you unaware when the lies hit.
But when prole and formal juxtapose,
I don't conform I just oppose,
and it takes more than just a pose,
we need to act,
and just suppose we did.
Suppose that flustered drones in clustered homes adjusted their lackluster bones,
and mustered up the guts and trust to fight the uppercrust and thrones.
They say the world's our oyster, take our liberty to travel
I need to have an atlas, hoist her, all the mysteries unraveled.
I've been writing this from the capital's eye
Watching captain's of capitalism capitalize
And decapitate with captions in capital lettered lies
And to cap it off the capsizing capital cries:
What's happened to London?
My home's a wrecking.