These thugs are wily and they’re griftin’ well;
they’re creeps, creepy, they bring griftin’ hell;
so wrong, on you they will put a spell.
They’ll con, oh yeah, con you.

They’re wily and chicanery’s their con…
conning dupes of treasury…
relieve them of most of their money.

They’ll con, quite well, con you.

They’ll grift you of your gold;
they bleed you with grafter touch.
Some cons are old yet bold…
your fleeceable bucks they clutch.

They’ll clutch onto just about everything,
then fly after they’ve pulled off the sting.
Your savings will have become their bling.

They’re gone…conned you.

They’ve dropped you…like fellin’ a tree;
they’re gone…conned you in a felony.
You’re in penury.

Grifts still work, and f**ked are chumps.
Their bucks are jerked from clutch; by cons they’re touched.