Tried Ladbroke Grove – if anything it's worse
The only way is through the throbbing crowd
Riding a ragga sound, the tune is building
I've folded up the chair, she's got the baby
We push on through the throng as women taunt
That children's day is Sunday not today
Which isn't helping our predicament
We're by the speaker stack, tune fit to drop
The crowd is thick strung, strong and poised to rave
I push on gingerly apologising
As yet another woman curses us
And then a hand reaches, grabs hold of mine
A big man by the speaker, licked with weed
'Blessings,' he says to me – I squeeze his hand
His lighthouse guides us through the treacherous seas
