The news says there’s a shortage, a massive hosepipe ban,

But that don't mean a thing to the local man,

Sun’s cracking flags on the council estate,

Summer is here and it’s absolutely great.

Home Bargains pool in pumped up in the yard,

But fillin it from the hosepipe was proper hard.

The recycling box has been given a promotion,

Filled up with corner shop ice and devotion.

Crushed to the top, keeping everything chilled,

With tinnies of Cider that need to be swilled.

The BBQ’s sizzling, we’re cooking up meat,

Balancing right on the bin in the heat—

A metal incinerator, blackened and old,

Turning Aldi special burgers to culinary gold.

BRRRAP! goes a 450 dirt bike right past,

No helmet, no plate, and he’s flying too fast.

Pulling a wheelie right down the main road,

Wearin shorts, a bally and some chains of gold.

The girls are all out in their best Primark gear,

Neon bikinis and skin tanning clear.

They’re swigging blue WKDs, shouting down the street,

"I’m booking off work, babe, can’t work in this heat"

The kids are all lathered in Factor 50 white,

Looking like ghosts in the blazing sunlight.

The baby’s sat screaming with joy in a bucket,

Too hot for clothes so we just said "Ah, fuck it."

Tracey from 11 got Spotify out loud,

From a speaker she bought on the weekly Catalogue cloud.

90’s oldskool shaking the glass,

While grandad sits out in his vest on the grass.

The trampoline’s netting is ripped to the side,

Where three of the local lads try to collide.

A stray Staffy crossbreed is sniffing the bin,

And the ice cream van chimes are just kicking in.

The sun’s going down but the tarmac is hot,

We’ve got standard lamp lighting out here on the plot.

Tomorrow we’re skint and we’ll pay for the thrill,

But tonight, mate, the estate is top of the hill.

The sun’s getting low but the heat’s hanging round,

The smell of burnt charcoal is filling the town.

We’ll do it again if the weather holds up,

With a cold can of carling in a sports direct cup.