Prompt:

[Verse 1] I landed in England, mate — calm as a cuppa, ready for a proper London trip, Customs officer sniffs my suitcase: “Oi… why does this smell like fish and chips?” I say: “Easy, gov — it’s just a snack for Chills, my girl, she loves a crispy dip.” But the whole Heathrow crew shouts: “ILLEGAL FISH‑AND‑CHIPS SMUGGLER! THIS BLOKE’S TAKIN’ THE PISS!” Suddenly agents of every size rush in like a full BBC comedy show, Tall ones, tiny ones, all yelling “LOCKDOWN!” as the red lights start to glow. My pet cobra — friendly as a Sunday roast — slides out slow, stealing the show, And a guard screams: “HE’S GOT CHILLS! SECURE THE TERMINAL! NOBODY LET HIM GO!” [Pre-Chorus] “Chills? What chills? You cold? You bringin’ frost to our land?” “No! She’s my girlfriend! She pops in and out like magic on command!” But they swarm me like I’m smuggling winter in a banned ice‑cream brand, “SHUT THE GATES! HE’S FREEZIN’! HE’S A THREAT TO EVERY BRITISH FAN!” HE’S GOT CHILLS!!! [Chorus] Now alarms go off, lights flash red, Heathrow shuts down tight, People shouting, tannoys blaring, 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 snowstorm in my pockets ready to ignite. [Verse 2] A giant officer stomps over, sipping tea with absolute grace, “Bonaparte, lad, you brought fish and chips — that’s a national treasure case!” A tiny agent climbs a suitcase 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 BILLS!” I say: “No mate — CHILLS! Not debt — just thrills!” [Pre-Chorus 2] The nurses whisper: “He’s foreign… maybe ‘chills’ means love where he’s from.” I yell: “YES! She’s my fire, my thunder, my Big Ben drum!” They say: “Isolation! Room 12! Close the door — he brought winter with him, chum!” And my cobra slides past calmly, humming like a London hum. [Bridge] I try to escape but Heathrow’s locked like a vault on Boxing Day, I shout: “CHILLS BABY, GET IN HERE — let’s turn this into a UK holiday!” She bursts in glowing brighter than Piccadilly lights on a Saturday, Dancing like she’s powered by tea — 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] We run out laughing, but the guards yell: “STOP THAT MAN!” “He’s got chills, fish and chips, and the last bottle of Ribena in the whole damn land!” I grab Chills’ hand, she grabs mine — we sprint free like a northern wind, I’m Bonaparte, baby — spreading English Chills from London down to Land’s End. NOW EVERYBODY’S GOT CHILLS!!! (The romantic kind — keep calm, carry on.)