Everyone is a hustler.
Young? There is no such.
We toil and our space is the Luna park.
Where happiness is melancholy.

We groan in bliss.
Calling out for money with a war cry of the deceased.
Yafa mare!,

Everyone is a hustler.
The aged? There is no such.
We crave for it like an oil craving machine.

The bag is all we can sacrifice for.
We all remember darkness at church.

We hustle in the hood.
Hustlers die walking at the money's pace.
Everyone is the hustler.