Which side are you on, man?
Whose game are you playing?
Two parties, one mask—don’t hear what they’re saying.
Left and right, just theatre and blight,
This city feels colder, every day and night.
And I’m just someone who finks it still matters,
Clutching my pint as the skyline shatters.

Are you following orders from faceless old men?
Neither fascist nor red, just gray suits again.
Deep in the shadows, their whispers persist,
Pulling our strings with a flick of the wrist.

Bilderberg secrets, WEF’s decree,
Telling the people who they’re meant to be.
Fifteen-minute boroughs, boxed in tight,
Mandates and measures in the dead of the night.

It’s an attack on our sanity, never mind our soul,
New World Order—feels out of control.
You call it conspiracy—maybe it’s true,
But look at these streets, they’re emptier too.

Digital money, west all the way east,
Every transaction tracked by the beast.
No more small favours or cash-in-hand deals,
No hiding away from the eyes in the wheels.

CCTV blinking, cold rain on my face,
London still moving, but lost in the race.
Sirens at midnight, and politics grim,
Promises broken, trust growing thin.

Sometimes I remember the London I knew—
Parks full of laughter, crowds in the queue,
Kids on the corner, music in air,
Now shadows and silence and nobody there.

Neighbours divided, suspicion and fear,
Scrolling through headlines that never seem clear.
We argue and worry, but deep down we ache
For a moment of truth or a genuine break.

Yet in the market, life stubbornly clings—
Old women gossip, a busker still sings.
Despite all the rules, some hope flickers on,
As long as we question, we’re never quite gone.

So whose side are you on, man, as the night pulls in tight?
Do you cling to the comfort or fight for the light?
This city keeps breathing—wounded but strong,
A Londoner lost, but still singing our song.

Whose side?