When you came here you were beautiful and broke,
when did you get so bold?
Did you grow tired of stealing all your smokes?
So you’re going for the gold.
You never had nothing to say, but you still spoke anyway.
You wear your airs, like an accessory.
You wear a crown as you hold court.
You switched from switching shifts,
to now you’re selling shares (of yourself).
I won’t buy, but I’ll sell you short.
You’ve got keepers to keep you awake and keepers to keep you away.
From the suits who record and parlay,
the price you’ll eventually pay, hey, hey.
Now you’re going for the gold.
Every shaking hand is a chance to make your break.
It’s all in who you know, you know.
But every open hand is surely on the take.
It won’t take too long to show.
You find fashionable friends to replace,
the ones you spit out like tired clichés,
keep a list of your every lay,
and it reads like a resume.