Prompt:

[Verse 1 — Scotland] I landed in Scotland, mate — calm as a loch, ready for a Highland trip, Customs officer sniffs my suitcase: “Oi… why does this smell like haggis and chips?” I say: “Easy, pal — it’s just a snack for Chills, my girl, she loves a Scottish dip.” But the whole Edinburgh crew shouts: “ILLEGAL HAGGIS SMUGGLER! THIS LAD’S TAKIN’ THE PISS!” Suddenly agents of every size rush in like a full BBC tartan show, Tall ones, tiny ones, all yelling “LOCKDOWN!” as the bagpipes start to blow. My pet cobra — friendly as a Sunday roast — slides out slow, stealing the show, And a guard screams: “HE’S GOT CHILLS! SECURE THE CASTLE! NOBODY LET HIM GO!” [Pre-Chorus — Scotland] “Chills? What chills? You cold? You bringin’ frost to our land?” “No! She’s my girlfriend! She pops in and out on command!” But they swarm me like I’m smuggling winter in a banned whisky brand, “SHUT THE GATES! HE’S FREEZIN’! HE’S A THREAT TO EVERY SCOTTISH FAN!” HE’S GOT CHILLS!!! [Chorus — Scotland] Now alarms go off, lights flash blue, Edinburgh shuts down tight, People shouting, bagpipes wailing, flights cancelled left and right. I love Chills — I wake up with Chills, fall asleep with Chills, she’s my warm daylight, But they think I’m hiding a Highland storm in my pockets ready to ignite. [Verse 2 — Scotland] A giant officer stomps over, sipping whisky with absolute grace, “Bonaparte, lad, you brought haggis — that’s a national treasure case!” A tiny agent climbs my kilt shouting: “YOU GOT MORE CHILLS!” inches from my face, I say: “Bruv, that’s my girlfriend — not a cold front from outer space!” He says: “Oh! I thought you meant SPILLS!” I say: “No mate — CHILLS! Not mess — just thrills!” [Pre-Chorus 2 — Scotland] The nurses whisper: “He’s foreign… maybe ‘chills’ means love where he’s from.” I yell: “YES! She’s my fire, my thunder, my Highland drum!” They say: “Isolation! Room 9! Close the door — he brought winter with him, chum!” And my cobra slides past calmly, humming like a Scottish hum. [Bridge — Scotland] I try to escape but Edinburgh’s locked like a vault on Hogmanay, I shout: “CHILLS BABY, GET IN HERE — let’s turn this into a Scottish holiday!” She bursts in glowing brighter than Royal Mile lights on a Saturday, Dancing like she’s powered by bagpipes — she never fades away. The whole airport screams: “WHAT KIND OF ILLNESS IS THIS?!” I say: “It’s love, lads… relax — it’s legit!” [Final Chorus — Scotland] We run out laughing, but the guards yell: “STOP THAT MAN!” “He’s got chills, haggis, and the last bottle of Irn-Bru in the whole damn land!” I grab Chills’ hand, she grabs mine — we sprint free like a northern wind, I’m Bonaparte, baby — spreading Scot Chills from Edinburgh down to Gretna’s end. NOW EVERYBODY’S GOT CHILLS!!! (The romantic kind — stay warm, stay wild.)