Born in Brussels, sixty-three,
World laid out like it owed to me.
No grind, no gate, just open road—
A silent deal the cosmos wrote.
No gods I trust, no fate I chase,
No legacy, no holy place.
Just some glitch or laughing ghost
Tipped the scale and poured the most.
Crown on me I didn’t earn,
While others fight and crash and burn.
I sip the luck, I do the dance—
Bastard child of Ho and Chance.