I'm lonely, sittin' in London without my peers,
blasting out my music I'm a worry to those old dears
who sit behind me but I'm not a rapper, 'cos these lyrics no one steers
it's the calling of the pint, a chink, and "cheers"
and the beer goes down, because this problem can't be fixed by tears
having taken the shears to the savings I've had for years
but I'm ok, as I drown my sorrow and my fears
happiness is the liquid gold of seven beers.