In the heart of the hustle, where dreams collide,  
A king walks the streets with no crown to guide.  
His throne is a corner, his scepter the grind,  
Yet he rules with a fire that’s hard to define.

He’s got no gold chains, no royal decree,  
Just the weight of the world and the soul of the free.  
The pavement’s his palace, the stars his domain,  
Every day’s a battle, every night’s a campaign.

His crown’s not on his head, but in the way he stands,  
In the grit of his hustle and the strength in his hands.  
Though the world might overlook, his spirit’s profound—  
In the city’s heart, he's a king with no crown.