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About Sheffield

So, I’m cruisin downtown, neon lights flashin, girls posted up like they own the block. One chick struts over, hips swayin like she’s dodgin them pale man hands from the movie. “What’s good, sugar?” she says, voice smooth as hell. I’m like, “Motherfucker, I ain’t here for games!” Reminds me of Ofelia—innocent face, but she knows the score. That’s the hustle, man, layers n shit.

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So, I grab my guitar, head out, and boom! First surprise of the day: the market on the main street. It’s like a mini carnival every Saturday. I’m strollin’ past the stalls, smellin’ all the fresh bread and pastries. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sausage roll, right? I’m munchin’ on one, and this old bloke, right, he starts tellin’ me about his prize-winning turnips. Like, mate, turnips? Really? But I nod along, tryin’ to be polite.

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