My favourite colour the street can’t fake, Pure milk drip, that survival shake. Fresh from the belly where the struggle was born, Same way the block keep hustlers sworn. It’s the cream I chase when the paper get thin, Like cows in the field, I milk what’s within. White as a flip when the product get moved, But pure like respect when the hustle approved. That shade is survival, uncut, no mix, Like bread on the table from a week of tricks. It’s money in motion, it’s food in the drought, It’s the hunger that teach what the hustle about. So when I sip dreams from this street-born cup, I toast to the grind that keep fillin’ me up. The colour ain’t paint, it’s life in a jug, Street milk, raw love, no mask, no plug.