Is this—

Is this where regular people shop?

I can smell the poor when I walk right in,

Aisle five misery, bargain bin sins.

Credit cards crying, wallets on life support,

I strut past the savings like it’s a sport.

I can smell the poor, it’s everywhere,

Clearance rack dreams in recycled air.

You call this shopping, I call it war—

Sorry, sweetie… I can smell the poor.

Click-clack heels on a budget tile floor,

Fluorescent lights never loved me before.

Cart wheels squeak, I wince in disgust,

Someone’s counting coupons like it’s sacred trust.

Lip gloss costs more than your rent this week,

Silk on my skin, I don’t sweat, I critique.

You say “excuse me,” I already knew—

That voice got debt written all over you.

I don’t mean to stare, it’s just… wow,

That smell of struggle hits me now.

Is it polyester? Fear? Or pride?

Whatever it is, babe, it’s not my vibe.

I can smell the poor when I walk right in,

Aisle five misery, bargain bin sins.

Credit cards crying, wallets on life support,

I strut past the savings like it’s a sport.

I can smell the poor, it’s everywhere,

Clearance rack dreams in recycled air.

You call this shopping, I call it war—

Sorry, sweetie… I can smell the poor.

Cart full of basics, survival chic,

I buy the aisle just to feel unique.

You’re price-checking cereal, I’m bored,

My dog eats better than this entire store.

Designer shades indoors, of course,

Eye contact feels like a legal force.

You whisper “must be nice,” I smile thin—

It is when you’re born to always win.

Your sneakers talk before you do,

They scream “payday loan” in off-brand blue.

I breathe through silk, hold my head high,

If money talks, mine tells yours goodbye.

I can smell the poor when I walk right in,

Discount despair clinging to your skin.

Self-checkout shame, receipts too long,

I don’t wait in lines—I don’t wait long.

I can smell the poor, it’s tragic, really,

Dreams marked down, hopes priced silly.

You call me rude, I call it lore—

Relax, babe… I can smell the poor.

No offense.

Okay, maybe a little.

I just don’t understand…

Why don’t you just—

Have more money?

I can smell the poor, it follows me home,

Like secondhand stress, like a sad little loan.

I leave in a limo, you leave with a chore,

Same automatic doors—different world.

I can smell the poor, but don’t feel bad,

Someone’s gotta lose so I can be glad.

Lipstick perfect, empathy poor—

Wave goodbye… I can smell the poor.

Do you validate parking…

Or is that just for people like me?