This girl sells, this girl sells
seashells by the seashore…pretty.
It’s “ca-ching!” she will sing
when folks are happy to pay.

Folks near tides walk, folks near tides talk;
the warm sun makes them smile.
And then, there she is, spieling her slick pitch.
Nacreous things bring her in bling;
she’s a vendor with style.
It’s a market that of grifts is clear.

Big’s the swell wreaking hell
on her business—it ain’t pretty.
In more bling she can’t bring…
tools gone, she thinks, “What else pays?”

Under streetlights she stands at night,
hoping that she’ll be seen
by the shoppers that are seeking pleasure.
They pay a bunch for a quick hump.
Street preachers keen, “Obscene!!”
’cause their hustle is threatened, they jeer.

Grifting well, grifting sells
in this business that is shifty.
Lifting bling is their thing.
Fools give them all of their pay.
Fooled-not folks? Balling away.