Drake

In the neon hush of Toronto’s night,
Drake walks the streets like a modern‑day bard,
His verses a mixture of soft‑spoken sighs
And bass‑heavy thumps that shake the underground.

He sips tea, not soda, while polishing rhymes,
A lad from the Six who knows the value of queue,
From Scarborough estates to the glossy charts,
He turns every chorus into a cheeky chant.

Like a mallard gliding on Thames‑lit water,
He dips his wings in fame, yet stays down‑to‑earth,
A Canadian drake with a London‑heart soul,
Quacking verses that echo in every flat.