Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Week 5 Paint Thinner Flow

(Crocker Verse)

/Holla!, Holla!, naw I'm just foolin'/ Crocker! Crocker! Doin' my one, two-in'/ Bastards, baby, this here is a movement/ Bitches be like "Slow it down, you too confusing"/ They wanna be P. Didd., I wanna be J. Prince/ Rap a lot, bitch, and be on my independent/ Six for every album, I'll cover the promo/ Contractual heat-slinger; Hideo Nomo/ Two-faced execs. try and play me for slow-mo/ Play Nelly, "Check the Telly," I don't need you no mo'/ Build a fan base and do my distribution/ Or let them do it, for one-tenth of what I'm moving/ Proof in the pudding, I don't need an endorsement/ "Mr. Ed smiles" tryna feed me some horse shit/ Goldilocks ain't bout to come close to my porridge/ 'Cause you should never EAT, if you ain't work FOR IT!/

Week 3 Who Better Than Me

(Hook)
/Better move 'fore you lose it/ No need in actin' foolish, I'm the best at this true shit/ Walking around askin' "who better than me?"/ "Not you, or you, nor you, or you/ Better move 'fore you lose it/ No need in actin' foolish, I'm the best at this new shit/ Walking around askin' "who better than me?"/ "Not you, or you, nor you, or you/

(Crocker Verse)
/Molecular structure, will puncture any motherfucker/ That dare stray...or try to cross the juncture/ I'm of a different makeup, a different breed of MC/ That's why I laugh at the gall of ya'll tryna test me/ Best me? I doubt that/ Real shit? I'm bout that/ Crocker; Only cracker bringing the South back/ It's more than swagger or the delivery enabled/ It's what chivalry you bring to the table...bitch/  I'm of a different caliber, a parabola/ You're weak, like five minute trips off Salvia/ I'm incensed for the sick shit, words are endless/ Dimwit, been fit, never try to flip this/ It's on baby boy, what you'd rather try see?/ It's Spartanburg, bitch, like a Southern Fried Sting/ Holler at a 'Bama, Blue Ribbon & some women/ Make use of her digits, then dispose of her linens/

Week 7 Sandlapper Swagger

(Crocker Verse)
Caleb, I think they hate me/ They front like they tough and they're bare-knuckle rough.../But I know that they fugazi/ Spit 'till my throat raw, bend every note raw/ 'Bout to plucked and 'bout to fucked like...what you drop the soap for? (Pause)/ Anyway I write 'till I mutilate my cuticles/ Arthritis premature, but, it feel so boo-tiful/ 'Bout that, 'bout that, holler out South Crack/ Every bar "bump," like my mouth done got a gout patch/ Button down shirts with a pull-over sweater.../ Animal control flow; Pull pussy better/ Spit nasty shit like every tooth is abscessed/ Play your beat,  I jack it, I'm a motherfucking bandit!/ Bastard, kid, just ask your bitch/ What you can do, when, you task a clit/ Rover, red rover, send them bitches over/ Wouldn't know a fresh cut, if I put stitches on your shoulder/

(Kronkite Verse)
/Outrageous, contagious, amazing, just blazing, Caucasian/ I be in the kitchen just baking until my dough is steady raising/ You runnin', I'm gunnin' for number one, before the summer/ And best believe I won't stop 'till all you rappers are under/ the dirt, ya worth is nothing of comparison, embarrassing/ cause ya all need to stop, if ya career ya cherishing/ You see the signs of the road, all the heads shaking no/ Telling me I'll never make it, my breath I need to save it/ let me tell how I got to where I am/ No money from hungry, greedy Uncle Sam/ I scrimped, dipped, and saved, you limp pimps just play/I'm just here to say, to get out my way/ 'Cause today is the day that I take my frustrates/ Out on whoever steps up to the plate/ Your flows, I will take them, and your hoes I will rape them/ And your lows I will make them my highest expectations/

Week 1 Every Time I Touch Mics

(Crocker Verse)
/Carolina baby, but, you already knew that/ Rap's Silva, I'm iller, pound the track 'till it's blue,black/ Fuck should I front for? Comfortable, true facts/ Flip a Madlib and go polly with Loot Packs/ Fresh with the words, Listerine tonsils/ Dabbled in the magic; Christine O'Donnell/ Toss a lil' seed and watch the hens peck/ Then they cry and scream when I leave 'em; Glen Beck/ It's all shit's and giggles, 'till I hit em in the middle/ Self-esteem'll start to dwindle/ Dig 'em even more, if they're lil', very nimble/ Designated hitter, now they wanna call me Terry Pendele...ton/ My spit weighs a ton.../ Your bitch dates a....bum/ You feed 'em, I beat 'em/ Suckas are too lame/ Fantastic bastard, all I know is a blue flame/

Monday, December 30, 2013

Week 8 Our Condolences

/Peer into my mind as my thoughts coagulate/ Bind to form the bars as the people gravitate/ Destiny tryna court me; trial, magistrate/ Just picking up on me? Man, damn...you late/Best hide your bravado, war up out my sorrow/ Rhyme technicolor..you seein' things mulatto/ White & black mixture, South Crack fixture/ They count on me, on the low, Outback census/ Open up your senses, this greatness in the flesh/ Born to be an idol, young, chasing after death/ Baruch atah Adonai, they try and cut my wings off/ Try and shift the weight, try and push off the see-saw/ If ain't the best...bear a witness and subpoena/ I'm after cold cash, yo, Medina that's anemic/ Push weight up out my mouth, resembling bulimics/ But, bet it's all fresh, like it's bathing in Febreeze and/ Seventeenth bar and I'm just cutting my teeth in/ Bet I'm spittin' A.I.D.S., see the lesions when I'm breathing/  Worsens with the seasons, believe it when I speak it/ More heat between the measures than "23" & Cleavland/ Got the word from Pico, their talent is poquito/ Tony Clifton swagger, Kaufman with my steelo/ They spy on the kid, like it's Porky's and the peep hole/ Claimin' that you "fire," well, I'm negative below/ President precedent setter, definite deficit better/ Put your chips on me and bet that the deficit betters/ John Wesley descendent, Hardin is my makeup/ Time, pardon what I take up, I'm just trying to save us/ Cut from a fabric, that's now since endangered/ They spoke of my coming like that baby in the manger/ Respect when you hear it, nobody's coming after/ Won't claim to be your savior...Just an angry cracker.../

Supernova Burnout

(1st Verse)
/Critical enough, feel it's pivotal to touch/ That essence 'fore it leaves and eviscerates the dust/ Just to muster up a lyric that capitulates my trust/ To think self-sacrifice demonstrates my love/ I see the hand of the clock, I'll demand that it stops/ Damned, tryna plan, and Uncle Sam on my jock/ Youth a shame of a sham when you stand on a prop/ But what's the worth of a man? Where he lands or how he drops?/ Carolina's abstract, wunderkid, tea sippin' Mad Hat/ Measure me, how I build, not by my ASCAP/ Praise to be God, I keep fallin' to the trappings/ All I took from Jesus was love and take your lashings/ So past transgressions and all man's lessons/ I'm a fucking emcee that demands your attention/ Whether broke or prosperous, po' or prosperous/ You can call rappers "hot," just distinguish me as phosphorous/

(Hook)
And I might fall/ And this might burn down/
But right now, I won't turn down/
Told me, you'd thought I'd learn now/
'Nother cliche, supernova burnout/

(3rd Verse)
/Absent but I'm present, sometimes I'm second guessing/ I'm the man, but still a man, and mistakes are my collections/ See me with my shrine and the temple I'm erecting/ Watch it go astray and no one find objection/ I'm in my prime, sure, but when I leave...so my legacy as well/ Yet and still, leave the best of me in every bar I yell/ 'Cause who among you'se really testing me for real?/ Crocker, ye and far, I wrote the recipe for ill/

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Week 41 Faites-Le A Mort

Cabbage patch in Hackensack, couple broads back to back/

/Bout as ugly as a midget tranny smoking bath salts/Waiting on T, that fat fucker is tardy / With these Cheers winos siting giggling hearty/   

See em, the footwork is like Christopher Walken/But he's short and smelling like a miniature Balken/  I hope it's worth what his fam' will have to spend on a coffin/And tell my mans chill, that his liquor has tossed him/ That's when Lurch swings, so I weave like Lennox/ Take a switchblade seize his appendix/ remember the winos like all I need is a witness/And a third strike means that I won't see christmas/

Yo T! The fuck you been at?!

CHILL!

BE REAL, I CAME FOR THE BLOW

Fuck Bobby Hurley,  bitch ruined my Filas/ Blood stained stripes now they lookin' Adidas/ T, you strapped, them pigs plot to roast us/ Let's plow a quick gagger and cock that toaster/

Thinking of last night, using all of my rubbers/ That pussy hummed like it was blind as shit/ T this it, the car's  half a block at nine and fifth/

Bitch quit eyeing my shit/ Wipe my crack with my hand in your eyes and shit/

 Reach into my coat, tighten my grip/ Pull The M3, pump two in the captain/The other 3 fire, buncha bullets, no action/

T busts out, hare triggers his Uzi/ Mows down two like he remembered a movie/The last fires a shell that pierces his neck/ T falls next to Walt, breath screaming respect/

He fires one last round, caught in the pig in his his chest/Says if I'ma do it, I'ma do it to death/

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Week 4 Jonesin' For A Smoke

/Saw my man down, he looked teeming with plight/ So...I said some funny shit, like, "Jesus is white"/ Just because I'm a bastard, they won't believe that I'm nice/ Liar! Ask your wife, how I treat her with pipe/ Fuck a check, give me respect and my stamp/ My logic makes sense, I'm after Gregory Grants/ Think your bars hard? I run a sediment plant/ Kid's disrespectful, learn some etiquette man/ Popcorn rappers, hope you choke on a kernel/ /Number one on the hit-list, that you keep in your journal/ Say he best? He's taking a piss, like he's frontin' a urinal/ Heard he sports nighties, likes to stunt with a gerbil/ Refrain from the lane I'm rolling in/ Chill when I'm in, they know it's him/ Grab my nuts then I hold my brim/ Hold your breath and then soak it in/ Say I think I'm better...well it's probably true/ Asking who is next...son, it's probably you/

/Grab your whiskey bottles and imbibe like this/ Son, burn a lil' Lah, try subside this shit/ Not a patron to a party where you wallow in your pity/  So follow all the hollows as I swallow up the city/ St. Pierre status, there's nobody left/ So as I'm waitin' in the ring, I might body the ref/ Damn right I spit coke, X, molly, & meth/ And they a paraplegic frat, won't nobody step/

Week 14 The Beauty Of Afterbirth

For my city, neighborhood, the place where I'll die at/ Made a couple calls and swore of a wire-tap/ Followed now and then, cause of cats that I hang with/ Hand of one, hand of all, think it's the same shit/ Paranoid, late night, higher than jet planes/ Seeing headlights, I'm as stiff as cassette tapes/ Sitting on the thought of the moment regret makes/ Watching every word, cause of places your breath takes/...You know what I mean man?/ Seen dumb shit that you wouldn't believe man/ Charge after charge, like I was crowding the paint/ Go in, in the night, be out in the day/ Constantly pulled with the same exact rap/ Searched more times than a dealer at fat camp/ The same ol' police, you'd know if you seen/ But it's getting too much, if it's getting routine/

Week 20 The Proclamation

/On my o-four grizzle, lil' slow burn sizzle/ Caught between heaven, hell, purgatory twiddle/ It's never what it seems to be, never be as simple/ So i document the trials, 'tween the crashing of the cymbals/ Success if you hear me, I'll never sell my standards out/ Even if that means, that I'll never see my album out/ Nurse another Newport, working on my next scheme/ But couldn't catch the wave if I was piloting the jet-ski/ Probably see some scratch if I compromised my sound/ Be hot up in the streets, be the talk all over town/ But what fucking good is that, when the market is down?/ The only artist 'round they ain't targeting now/ Ironic underground; cause it's over your noggin'/ Never thought, "too smart" could be all of the problem/ Keep begging me to please, dilute the solvent/ Like, that'll be the day, that they neuter a Crocker/

Week 2 Pie With Aunt Bee

(Crocker/ Verse 2)
/Ride beats, flow'll stray, colder, Jon Benet/ Or Benoit/ Hear voices, enigmatic like bent stars/ I cast a shadow like that of Goliath/ I'd've crushed David, raps too frustrating/ Replayed the ending to the tune of Waylon Jennings/ Stacked a few corpses and surveyed my winnings/ Massacre the game and converge with clips/ Son of Sam, I am the son of David Berkowitz/ When my time's up and my life's recapped/ I would've eaten enough rappers to force having teeth capped/ Vlad The Impaler, picturesque when I nail her/ Like..who would Jesus kill? And who was his tailor?/ Hate encapsulated with arsenic and a smidgen of lead/ Dear Lord, I am lost in the land of the dead/ Henceforth, barter salvation through the steel of a sword/ Behead Antoinette and keep slaughtering more/

(Crocker/ Verse 3)
/Confined in a rhyme that knows nothing of structure/ In time, the grind realigns and unwinds at a juncture/ It's up to me to tempt fate/ And bleed it like it menstruate/ Grip the pen and squeeze until the ink's raped/

/ Violate the pad with obscene visions and come-on's/ And eulogize departed, who I feel were done wrong/ Brimming with capitalism and a side of fascism/ Outlast the timid and buy and sell women/

With the sickle...I am so damn despicable/ Make an outright diss seem like a subliminal/ Far beyond the restraints of fear or apprehensions/ Rap's "G" with a compass, collapsing buildings/

Mother-fuck the rest of whoever the hottest/ I'm hard, like I finger-fucked a mythic Greek goddess/ Cease fire, lest, you stupid or suicidal/ You brow-beat, I beat bitches with Bibles/

Week 15 The Change-Up

They talk who they tout, saying dog he steamin'/ But they a joke to me rappin' son, Joaquin Phoenix/ Skill level show they just parsley greenish/ My bars the entree, beg par I'm Stephen/ So do you pop the Tre or do you rock-away?/ I think you take it in the mouth for cheese; Sascha Grey/ Flash in the pan ass; Timothy Tebow/ I give em dope bars, son you feed em placebos/

Beat change, think it's time for reflection/ But fuck that, the hard's on, like a perm-ie erection/ Competition where? Son, procure me the next one/ Ain't hard to understand like a hermie's depression/ Talk about my bars like...he'll befuddle you/ He's too hardcore bitch...E.C.W./ Leader of the New Dawn, Jim Jones shit/ Then I'm ballin' in her mouth...Jim Jones tip/ Herringbone, neck-bone, I flavor the tasteless/ The hard to baking soda, I bring base to the baseless/ Tired of new rappers...you slittin' your wrist yet?/ If I wanted slick talk...then I'd throw on some Dipset/

Week 23 My Repressed Former Self

The heart of me is notes on a measuring scale/ In a raincoat, umbrella, weathering hell/ And whether I fail, is beside the message/ With a book of regrets and some second guesses / Went to bed with that injury, that'da been the end of me/ one last lullaby sung so tenderly/ Looking eye level, death in the pupil/ Day away from Church and from seeing the pews filled/ Kind words, tears, and that's all she wrote/ One final prayer and to the dirt I go/ You ever faced that?/Outright forced to face fact/Wake up to IV's, your split up parents/ Looking down like your a corpse, won't quit staring/ Ask what you need... so sentimental/And you reply a pen, paper and a instrumental/ Just cheated death and you just wanna write/ Beat bump between vomiting all through the night/Now tell me what you know about dedication?/ Not in the stratosphere of the specification/ Severed brain nerve endings, and sixteen measures/ Puking hurts, but them bars? Pristine pleasure/ Middle finger wagging through the blitzkrieg weather/ G-d shined on me, I do the sixteen better/

Friday, December 27, 2013

A Song For You

Verse 1:
/Off but I'm on, need I say more?/ What and how do I do, when can't reach the door/ Seems like a chore, one that ain't too fruitful/ Makes me question self-worth and if I'm that useful/ Hate you but I love you, always comforting/ Known you'd never leave me here wondering/ Since Dad left, you've been right there by me/ Throwing gas on the fire so it ain't that dying/ School after school, you kept near by me/ So it was either fists flying or me, broke down, crying/ Over Dad, step-dad, always inspiring/ Me, to bring hate, either out or inside me/ Had me five years old put a kid on a stretcher/ Daycare calling' Mom, telling' her to come get him/ Diggin' in the sandbox, tunnel to hell/ Naw, I ain't a shrink, but I think, something had fell/

Verse 2:
Guidance counselor after counselor, you stood right by me/ 1st thru 5th, as the time went flying/ Fight after fight, you ain't stop trying/ Then you'd guilt me on Sunday as if you ain't try me/ Mom's tripping on us talkin', says I shouldn't know you/ I'm playing dumb like "Who?" She says, "He'll control you"/ Held me when she was hurting, mental or physical/ And when it got pivotal, you proved to be critical/ Woodbine, woodbine, just you, me, and Mom's/ I miss it so much, but, fuck that song/ Ten years old: you showed me what coke does/ Never could recall when you showed me what hope was/ Showed me: Love doesn't last, shoe always drops/ And if I ever got close, made sure it always stopped/ When we left the city, you hopped in with me/ Tried to let you go, but I knew you'd miss me/

Verse 3:
/Always said you were enough and I always bought that/ If I tried and forget, you always brought back/ If it was self-esteem, I always lost that/ And you'd look aways, as if, you ain't saw that/ Took away my fight, just left me to take it/ Fuck was that about? You knew that I'd hate it/ Turned cheek after cheek, until I regressed/ Just began to keep quiet, kept it all in my chest/ Play some heavy metal, start dreaming' of death/ Start reciting all the reasons that I would have left/ And here we are again, a decade later/ The same mix playing and I reach for the fader/ Nineteen years, you've been playing my savior/ But every time I think, it was you'd who I'd cater/ Matter fact, fuck you, and your backhanded blessings/ I'm sick and tired of you, my grandstanding depression/

I Think I'm Black

(Verse 1)
/That boy go bananas, throws fingers at cameras/ Is too open when he paints his picture up on a canvas/ Likes to reference G-d and then follow with dammit/ Has a problem with is heritage, continually trash it/ Did a track, with a Muslim, claimed our country was fascist/ In the vid, he made salat, the hell's with that shit?/ Bet he's a sympathizer, or a terrorist worst/ Started singin' "Kill Whitey" last show that they worked/ Stood up, on that stage, with that arrogant smirk/ I'm sure he's insecure, and a terrible jerk/ Keeps mixed company, blacks, Jews, and the like/ Like deep down inside, he's ashamed that he's white/ Saw him in the Jailbirds, spent a couple of nights/ Bet his mother is disgusted, keeps him out of her sight/ Bet when she speaks with her friends, never speaks on his life/ Pretends like he isn't there, just to save her the spite/

(Hook)
/Don't pay him attention, he don't know who he is/
/Little insecure prick, pretend he flow and he spit/
/Boy wanna be black, tries to show that he is/
/Crock? Name suits, he should know that he's shit/

(Verse 2)
/Heard his open mic failed, as did his hometown showcase/ Never made money, so they showed where the door breaked/ Heard that DJ backed him, one that spins at the club/ That's controversy filled and but that's welcoming is/ Heard his ole lady left him, and he shattered to pieces/ That's what they both get, both slandering Jesus/ Talks about suicide as if he's screaming to see us/ Like look at me, look at me, he's either sick or defeatist/ Heard his real label split, acts left in the process/ So, he started a new one, like this one will progress/ Don't make real music, and he sucks at the fake shit/ And he'll never have a song on a radio playlist/ His album's never dropping, been coming for two years/That single came and went, everybody like who cares/ And if it does drop, hell, I'm sure it'll flop/ Who you know would buy a record from a rapper named Crock?/

(Hook)
/Don't pay him attention, he don't know who he is/
/Little insecure prick, pretend he flow and he spit/
/Boy wanna be black, tries to show that he is/
/Crock? Name suits, he should know that he's shit/

(Verse 3)
/Yeah he made salat and I back it completely/ Don't like it, don't care, give a fuck how you see me/ This country isn't fascist, hell look at the brackets/ Of taxes between politicians and the national average/ Far as being white, shit, it is what it is/ But I won't live a life being proud of the shit/ Far as my crew goes, those people are family/ Keep 'em out of your mouth, don't misunderstand me/ The jail shit was dumb shit, really nothing of mention/ But outta that came Bandit and divine intervention/ Mom's proud, in her way, she just hates that I'm broke/ Far as the shows, thanks for the five you paid at the door/ Sparkle City's still up, hell Scotty's behind me/ Lovelorn's growing wings and we're working on flying/ Buy it or your don't, but peep the progress to here/ Shit, I hate my name to and Catharsis is here/

(Hook)
/Don't pay him attention, he don't know who he is/
/Little insecure prick, pretend he flow and he spit/
/Boy wanna be black, tries to show that he is/
/Crock? Name suits, he should know that he's shit/

Week 37 Ole Country Heart

Collectible treasures of immeasurable measure/ Birds of a feather, move, traversing the weather/ Storm stays, storm leaves, whoever got it together/ When the hardest word seems for me to be: "never"/ The fuck do I care for? Soul with an air hole/ When aren't you in rare form?/ I curse myself for it, control's too important/ Dragging out the past, should've kept it in storage/ World fulla color, yet it seems so morbid/ In the midst of my bullshit, conflicted, & warring/ Put the brush down, this corner's too rigid/ Should've used another lyric, I don't dig the depiction/ This trap's alotta things, but me, it just isn't/ Or maybe I've changed, and I feel I resent it/ Maybe I can't find the words to sum in a sentence/ Maybe it's the ending or maybe...it isn't/

The Devil Is Dope (Remix) Verse

A shaytan, Satan, the accuser/ He who defies the order, self-building Confucian/ The fallen star metaphor for imperfect human form/ A romanticizing of our self-effacing scorn/ The rebel, the outcast, label use to defame/ Like Jesus in the temple kicking tables of change/ Tell Benedict I think him more the unrighteous/ The Beast that Revelations prophesied and surmises/ The opposer, the opponent, like who oppresses/ The light Pike spoke about, Morals and Dogma professes/ A John Milton invention, Christians turned to an icon/ To justify the slaughters that they spent their whole life on/ A boogeyman people traumatize their kids with/ A Mel Gibson scene with a female depiction/ Ronald Regan, Ronald Regan, White Christ, what is this?/ Pitchfork, horns, and red elephant pendants/

Week 38 Herman Cain

/Underground Transmission, we are fuckin' relentless/ Milligram after gram, 'til it's numbing my senses/ Till I'm all geeked up, like a comic convention/ Like the best die here, like Golgotha tradition/ Make this shit look easy, whiff, take a smell of it/ On the low, try to kill it, for the Jerry Heller of it/ You go dumb? I go Helen Keller sonny/ Goin' Moby Dick, I'm on my white whaler hunting/ There can only be one: Obama, Osama/ Am I the best? Maybe: Ghani Gautama/ The unofficial 3rd Gunman/ Asalaam & Shalom, the second Sessions coming/ Lovelorn curator, Bastards as well/ So much heat in the stash, thought I was salvaging hell/ Smoked a pack and a half in the past twelve hours/ Graveside, watering, old frail flowers/ Bon Scott style, another kick to the teeth/ Stigmata spit, 'till I feel the slits in my feet/ 'Till the shit nicks and rips another inch your seat/ 'Till your shit flips and trips and you're convinced that it's me/ You're H.I.V.? I'm a sicker degree/ Comprise the eye of the storm...You're but a flicker to me/ And peace to Josh Wiley, it's just the liquor in me/ When Michelangelo painted Jesus...it was a picture of me/

I Emcee

Feast your eyes on this, the incomparable bastard/ Most obnoxious of crackers, bout to stomp on the axis/ Tailored is the name, it's how my moniker lasted/ Black head to toe, death harbinger fashioned/ Fee, Phi, Fo, Fum, bout to conjure some skid marks/ Gather for the show with fire torches and pitchforks/ You cats write your raps like: "The hell I do this for?"/ I spit twisters and toilets, watch it swell to a shit storm/ I see no threat, like blind bitches at truck stops/ Funny like scene kids explaining what's punk rock/ Like a gullible fuck makin' a wife out of a jump off/ Flow crack cunts, you just know that it come raw/ Throw shots at Horus 'till it's pissing the sun off/ Then Heru steps and humbles him with a dumb loss/ Eat him, then burp flames whenever my lungs cough/ Amen-Crock, I'm what you stare at a "one" for/

So...run, run, I real emcee/
No...dumb, dumb, when I speak/
The boogieman's here, it's intelligent white trash/
With shit so fresh, thought it's tinted with lilac/

This the throw down , bitch, the line in the sandbox/ Cause I'ma pour it on 'till the beams in the dam rot/ I define sick, I use the word as my mascot/ Vomit stuffed hammocks, honey basted with crack rock/ Tryna kill Father Time, on the low, cause I obsess/ Mother Earth fronts, pumps brakes when I progress/  "X" him, Fuck her, six feet and it's on brett/ Developed one hell of an oedipus complex/ I don't wanna stunt, skinny bitches are cunts/ I think club music sucks, most rappers are punks/ I think club music sucks and most rappers are punks/ If R&B's on, it's cause I'm finna to hump/ Some ol' Lena Horne or Donny Hath, I'ma bump/ No cool, high strung, they stew, I come/ Haikus, they shun, I bruise, they puns/ Butt of the joke, you asshole/ Son I spit, like I pack Skoal/

Came to smoke and kick ass...and I'm down to my lucky/ Scrunchies and jean skirts, son it's gonna get ugly/ Gon take that and bop, like your publishing Puffy's/ Fuck you 'till you cry and you tell me you love me/ (Whoo!) Pause to infinity!/ I'm what made Medusa cold, night I took her virginity/ Herpes to the game, son, you'll never get rid of me/ Pop up, awards night: watch everybody get finicky/ Brian Pillman resurrected, Adderall, & erection/ H.E.R. stripped 'till she's naked, nine inches for skeptics/ Yeah the truth hurts, and I'ma beat 'till she's septic/ 'Till the backlash deafen & they're calling for medics/ Programmers beware, censors ready your button/ Cause this is what happens, giving books to a bumpkin'/ Learns knowledge of self, esteem gets to jumpin'/ And soon he's poppin' shit, like, what's the use of the ruffage?/

Week 32 Third Time

Sittin' on the dock, she's straddlin' my cock/ Thighs quiver, lips shiver, that's another one I've knocked/ NOTCH!/ Big feet, big ears big hands/ look goofier than fuck but I've got a kickstand/ Heard myths about my dick like it does guest appearances/ Was on Mariah's last album, but Sony wouldn't hear of it/ Skinny bitches got a fear of it/ Go a lil deep, watch 'em start to tear and shit/ Talk about my penis like I'm full of insecurity/ Ha! That'd be the mother-fucking day/ When I fuck, it rain dances, and you start to feel the rain/ No Cherokee/ I dunno what's bigger, my ego, or my member/ Latter brought the former, since I could remember/ Magnum for the squeeze, XL let it breathe/ Watch her swallow little dribbles, then I tickle til she sneeze/ EW! That's too fuckin' sick/ If a broad ever left me, it wasn't for my dick/ This my Dice Clay flow, Hick dickory dock/ Yadda, yadda, yadda, it's simp-uhly Crock/

Howard Street Part II

See that paint chip, faucet leaks drop/ Curled up, denim coat and some worn Reeboks/ The cold makes the bone chill, won't cease. Stop!/ Try to numb with dollar-beer, feel your right knee lock/ Ain't shaved in months, Shower, forget it!/ Last meal, a Debbie cake, can coke, and come chips and/ Didn't settle shit, hear your stomach a bitchin'/ Thinking of your family and the tear in the stitchin'/ Gave careless forgiveness for the prayer that you'd listen/ Unaware of tradition, and the ware that you're fixed in/ Feel that roach crawl, feelin' despair/ Hell you'd cry again, but who would hear you or care?/ Those stains on your pipe, went and painted your soul/ Disengaged, been afraid, down in a hole/ In control, out control, hopin' you fold/ Death'd be release, hell's suffering old.

Masochism

/It doesn't stop and it never fades/ So I dream of peace, 'round the Everglades/ Out in the cut, me and nature/ Each moment solace, ripe to savor/ See the past and I wave it bye-bye/ Just me, a broad, and a fuckin' my-ty/ Tired of standing out like tye-dye/ Tryin' to focus, and expand on my high/ It ain't all love, it's salt to slugs/ Bitter quitter, that walk with thugs/ Astute convicts, slidin' jewels/ I stand aghast, but a lyin' tool/ Lose myself in the mire of pools/ Of thought, and cost just as dyin' do/ That's what it's 'bout, right? Wealth and passing/ A memory fading, never lasting/

/Let me roam in the garden of Adam and Eve/ To bare witness of what the sinless see/ No genocide, or hate or treason/ No logical thought of rhyme or reason/ No sense of time, to stymie seasons/ Not a time with the slime and the grimy heathens/ Oh my ego, Oh my ego/ Am I crazy? Word to Cee-Lo/ Nah, I'm just trying to find my Nemo/ And lose my hair, like a dose of chemo/ Take my deeds and barter grace/ Make a path through my father's way/ Create a family and then abandon/ And pretend like what the hell had happened/ Knowing I gave it all up for rappin'/ Pissed away on the whim to chances.

/Time to go, faster I do/ There I sit, bleed like Pirus/ Round top floor, see the sky view/ I know love, and I swear it's by you/ You let it go, chalk it up to fate/ I'm martyred up, and I fail to say/ 'Fore you leave, best not to lay/I know lonely and it's a stayin'/ You say no, sir, I've been prayin'/ I say bullshit, start conveying/ All my reason for my anguish/ Why I love here, and why I languish/ You say, in that case, grab that stainless/ And prove to me that it's fuckin' painless.

/I can't let go/
/I can't let go/
/It's the reason I love livin'/
/Justifies me and my sinnin'/
/I don't need you/
/I can't see you/
/You'll be the reason I last too long/
/You'll be the reason to rap this song./

Ashing On The Past

(Kronkite Verse)
//I’m coming in, trying to achieve the American dream/ But it’s the only thing I’m gonna do until it’s time to leave/ Money in that drop box, ego past that normal stee-lo/
/Actions colder than below, why you fucking with me hoe/ Got that blade in the pocket, hearing voices say stop it/ I’m just a stupid watch kid who can’t seem to clock it/
I need some adrenaline, and I’m sickened by you simpletons/ Bitches get mad when they learn more ‘bout the inner him/ My life’s been fucked since the sound of a gunshot/ Drop a bomb at a 7 Eleven, kill y’all in one stop/ Killing for a cure, while y’all paying for some loving/ I murder for the fun of it, shooting while your running/ I’m dumping while I’m gunning, steady laughing while you crying/
Should’ve known better than to bet against a lion/ So best advice to hide all the women and babies
Cause whoever I aim at is pushing up daisies/

(Crocker Verse)
/I dig your smile and your walk, there's something calming about/ Sets me out to ease, something charming about it/ I love how you love me, there's something honest about it/ Cynical as I am, I'm a kid when around it/ Luck's bottomed out, bout to buy some cartons now/ Chain-smoke til my throat bleeds my esophagus out/ Bob James on repeat, zoned to Nautilus now/ Mirror cracked, staring at who I'm targeting now/ Reach for the phone, when it's best that I shouldn't/ 'Cause how I really feel don't reciprocate what you put in/ You see what I could, not the box that I'm put in/ Open up your heart and I pretend that I look in/ But I'm down, so I call, with selfish intentions/ Conversation, you're elated, look happy to listen/ I know where this is leading, now, wish that I didn't/ You know, true quote, I hope you never forgive this/

Stereotype

First started rapping just to deal with my issues/ Didn't know where it would go, but now look what I've been through/ Different crews of different hues, with my paper and pencil/ Pressure to succumb, to rock club instrumentals, Got to see the real, guns, gangsters, & drugs/ Nickel bags of flex and different caliber slugs/ Affiliations, rankings, and the families within/ No business, but we'd drink, get high, then we'd spit/ At the point it was three, far as beats and the rhymes/ But what I wanted, they didn't, we couldn't keep it in line/ Up to now no shows, and it's spring of '09/ Four years, no album, nothing to show but the time/ Save for battles in the P's and a few in Atlanta/ The Apache on Tuesday, just beating they ass up/ By now I know the culture, and it gave me identity/ But nothing's come of it, 'cept conflict and memories/

Novelty don't dawdle/
Your clock ticks...time's borrowed/
Find your pride you swallowed/
Fire your shells...or follow/

/Started booking gigs, shit pay, or whatever/ With my producer's band beside me, first shows did together/ I miss it, we were clever, even covered my single/ Do the set, drink some beer, kick back, and we'd mingle/ They got offer from a label, Bandit mentioned my rappin'/ They really wanted them, but figured, fuck it, a package/ Band balked, broke apart, and I felt it was tragic/ Left to myself, recorded "Crocker is a Bastard"/ Label started booking, on paper, impressive/ Though with each show I did, I stated feeling the pressure/ Did Jersey for a buck with Kronkite on probation/ Did Mill Springs, clean, no cursing or raging/ Eve of Thanksgiving, trekked up into Nashville/ I was brok, they ain't promote, no gas, at a standstill/ So I crashed in my car, Kronkite in the backseat/ To catch a morning MoneyGram and drive back on a tad sleep/

/Now the Sessions/ Muta Scale, and Crock's Audible Palindrome/ Underground Transmission, my people are proud of him/ Just a dollar and a dream, no budget or nothin'/ Just Lovelorn Records and these shows with the Gunmen/ Could've failed, should've failed, every instance afforded/ But I'm here, give a damn, if they tried and aborted/ No Minstrel, Sambo, just my life & bravado/ A beat and a pen and a smoke and Moscato/ They try box me in like overnight is the motto/ But I knock 'em out the box like cues from D'Amato/ No gimmick, no dance, no ceiling or filter/ My b.s. standards are not open to pilfer/ Call me what you like, crucify as you see fit/ But don't ever compare to the rest of that weak shit/ If it means less sales, I'll re-up on my Ramen/ And continue in my role of hypothetical problem.

Bastard Team Verse

Winged tip mutilation machine/ We the shit, like we birthed from outta latrines/ Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream/ I'm at home with your wife pumpin' her cream/ My confidence mean, like it left me and formed it's own person/ So I only diss him/ cuz he's the only one worth it/ curtains, I'm cold as George Gervin/ Absolute arrogance, like I'm so certain/ Public perception, like my public erection/ Whether up or its down, they still gettin' the message/ P tells me chill, you're too big in the britches/ That's like tellin' Ron Jerm he's too big into bitches/ Why pinch hit, when you Babe Ruth rappers/ Start throwin' missilesand Beirut rappers/ Scribble and they scrabble, but they just dabble/ When I step in the booth, son, they lay out towels/ Talk shit, like I work sanitation/ And smile at all of yous, I can stand the hatin'/ The Crockness Monstah, word toBoot Camp click/ Mythic Scottish beast, like I do that shit/ Bastards, baby, no Alfalfa/ They Buckwheat, I pump speed, please look out for/ The Carolina Cauldron, fuckin' team is disgusting/ Chew mouth open, son, every session's a luncheon.

Week 21 The Game Don't Stop

The game is the game, either accept it or not/Ain't never gonna stop, be here when you not/ So I play it how I know, work the angles and such/ It's supposed to be hard, never painful enough/ Cats shameful with bluffs, ain't got no value/A like is a lie, and a lie will out you/ Come and you go, they'll forget about you/ Fame is a chance, but a career is doubtful/ You're disposable, they can live without you/ You're popular, son, what can last about you?/ Sick flows for days, tired of throwaways/ And the same ol' same don't know that they're lame/ Denial is a burden, that's built for the weak/ And a trend is a time that eventually cease/ Now I ain't meek, but I know better/ And I ain't money, but my flow cheddar.

/Best believe is it's Kronkite/
/Best Believe it's Crocker/
/Know that we the fryin' pan/
/The rest of y'all are water/
/You're make believe's make shift/
/The game makes martyrs./
/Y'all too short-sighted, son/
/We aim farther./

Week 10 Rhinoplasty Rhymes

(Crocker Verse)
Morally bankrupt, bereft of gems or the jewels/ That was the last thread and I'm fresh out of spools/ So I glide through the graveyard sampling characters/ Picking out traits, building a caricature/ I don't know what man, but something that's pleasing/ Something that they'll notice and they'll say that I needed/ Ever look at your script, and then tire of the treatment?/ How the leads painted ain't at all how you see it?/ So I'ma rewrite and pull from those who have passed on/ Take the best of them and then I'll put my new mask on/ Those who wanna judge and say it won't last long/ I'm not emotional, I just relate to those sad songs/ You do it too, just make an effort to hide it/ I ain't mad at cha, man, we call that survivin'/ Even thinkin' surgery with the help of a doctor/ Wait, who am I kidding? Damnit, I'm Crocker/

(Bridge/Hook)
/And I don't know what idea you had/
/But that ain't this and that's too bad/
/Drag off a smoke and push my roof back/
/Fiddle with a pen and try to make my truth last/

Week 16 Song of the South

Another stab at the outlet, cultivating the output/ Tired, romanticizing the outlook/ Where the hell do you go just to show 'em you 'bout that/ Tryna put South Carolina up and on out that/ Money put where my mouth at/ Bitch I bed of you doubt that/ Got beef, place where the sow at/ Speak like we're harmless, like we still on some farm shit/ Like that fuck flag where's all of our hearts sit/ Like a blonde on Tosh is all we are/ Like we're ten points away from being fucking retard/ *HUH HUH* kiss my ass and I mean that/ I ain't you bitch and I'll be that/ Verse worsen here, we persevere/ Perverse inner workings choke and surface here/ Crocker, son it's Spartanburg in here/ Ain't close to my level, even purtnear/

Why So Simple?

(Verse 1)
I find myself through a bottle and amphetamines/ Zoned out, closed up, anticipating weathering/ Son, it's Stephen, can we speak about redemption?/ I'm on pins and needles, frozen in suspension/ Backyard, Victoria, working on a cigar/ Pen in my hand, man, devising up my next bar/ Out and about, they asking 'bout my head scar/ Others, bout my music, ask if I'm the next star/ D's in the basement, mixing up the medicine/ I'm on a stage, loud, bitching like a reverend/ 'Till the next club, politicking like a candidate/ Bandit's in the back room, playin' with a mandolin/ Plotting out the next move, area we canvasing/ Tryin' for some net worth, scheming on the back end/ Take turns on the soapbox, speakin' on our hate of/ The puppets on the radio and how they try and play us.../

(Hook)
Why so simple?! Why so simple?!
Oh...Oh!
Why so fickle?! Why so fickle?!
Why so simple?! Why so simple?!
Oh...oh!
Why so fickle?! Why so fickle?!

(Verse 2)
/It’s a cold world, so you better bundle up/ No socks, no shoes, no Daddy Warbucks/ Took shit promised to the center of the heart/ Being told the game’s over before I start/ That shit hit you like bricks if you ain’t ready/ I want to make it rain, surprise, no confetti/ I’m racing for the money like my name is Andretti/ And my lines stay heavy, smooth like I’m riding Chevy/ Hands stay steady, right on track, never leftie/ The rest are going backwards like Go!, set, ready/ Just really know how hard I want to /And I’ll do anything besides sell my / And I can put it on life, you count on / Like I put on for Hip Hop, instead of rap/ And I guess that’s why all the others are wack/ I’m fact, they fiction as a matter a fact/ 

*Repeat Hook*

(Verse 3)
/Now...Look at the doggy in the window/
/Another cute mutt that's impeding on your kinfolk/
/Singing along to hoes and endo/
/Wonderin' why in the hell should I sit for?/
/I said "Shit, ask Rosa"/ Or any other pioneer or dope composer/ They say "Naw Son, spark that doulja"/ "Write another joint that ride for me and my soldiers"/ I respond with "Read a book son, find some composure"/ "Learn about culture and looking for closure"/ Told me I'm a a square, "We can't bop to this"/ "Man, shorty won't rock or gimme wop to this"/ "My box in the back won't knock to this"/ "Man Crock, no offense, but this a crock of shit"/ I said "Son there's more than being on the block with chips"/ They say you piss in the wind, but can't stop the rich/

Meade, Speed, Weed

(Verse 1)
/Blue Moon draft, that too...eh?/ Fuck it, slide me that and my Newport pack/
/Hey everybody! I'm socially awkward/ Like a groom & a groom at a Protestant altar/ 'Feez, Was Jesus an Emam?/ Hair like mine? I mean, shit, uh, KEG STAND!/ I rock the party while your girl's gettin' naughty/ Then I rock her body 'till she's glued to the potty/ Hey DJ! The fuck is a dub-step?/ Nevermind...I think that's enough yet/ White people...W.T.F.?"/ Coupled with the "X" that shit's making me sea sick/ Smash...bet you believe yet/ Who everybody bites, but nobody respects/ Heat, you feel the degrees yet?/ Thumb to the knuckle, you feel my degrees yet?/

(Hook)
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Simple as can be, that is all I need/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Simple as can be, that is all I need/

(Verse 2)
Meade, you know: "Drink," like preferably beer/ Or "Burr" if you prefer, but I think that that's weird/ Add XO, Adderall, and I'm gravy/ Max Bigaveli, start feeling wavy/ Tune into the Factor and I scream at the TV/ Like that bald motherfucker can actually see me/ Uh, I meant "The Shore," see my girl J-Wowsers/ Copyright, Kronkite, put my Bic to the Bowser/ Slang so hard that I'm seemin' incredulous/ Bread with my wine, my swagger is Methodist/ Like...guess who's back...again/ Crocker's back! Yeah, no, that's him.../ Like "Fist pump bros! We don't love them hoes!"/ And I'm too fucking poor for a HMO/ If I put this out...does it make me slow?/ (Well...does it?)

(Hook)
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Simple as can be, that is all I need/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Meade, speed, weed/
/Simple as can be, that is all I need/

(Verse 3)
Who likes beer pong?! You like beer pong?!/ I like a fat ass and a beautiful clear thong/ Joe Rogan stoned, eating a deer dong/ A.D.H.D. meds adorning my beer foam/ Five-Percenters teach "The majority's ignorant,"...not that that will play to your sexual benefit/ In fact, try talking, respond with some confidence/ Show her that you listen, man, pay her some compliments/ Ay, Mitch Daniels, you look like a corpse/ Pale as all hell, with a mouth like a horse/ I mean...Satellite! Back cup and it's over/ Here's to hoping your mom still looks good sober/

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Too Close For Comfort Lyrics

Started innocent, talk and what have you/ Friends for awhile, not a thought to grasp you/ I was doing me, you were doing you/ You were spoken for, they pursuing you/ I was on the sly, and we just conversed/ Tryin’ to clean up, tired of doing dirt/ We’d hit the clubs, maybe blow a few L’s/ Dinners, alcohol, sharin’ stories as well/ I’d give you a glimpse of my glorious hell/ You’d deck me out, ironed shirts with lapels/ Cologne, sweaters, sophisticated the tale/ Khakis, pea coats, looking flyer than hell/ Dating my mans, hell I met you thru dude/ Now, it’s bump n grind, on the floor, in the nude/ You’re not the one for me, nor I for you/ But the sex was too good for me to just be through/


/Two many drinks, too close for comfort/ But it feels so good to touch ya/

/Too many times I’ve tried to neglect/But it feels so good to touch ya/


Do they know, do they know/ See there’s another missed call/ Prolly found the wrapper, and he ain’t touched you at all/ Every time I speak to him, I think of your curves/ Doing a slow grind on me, going to work/ Paranoia keeps creeping and I think my boy sees it/ Every time that I greet I see him start swinging/Beating my face in and hearing him screaming/ Over and over, your name he keeps repeating/ Just one more time, and your man’ll catch us/ In his own house, being a bit too reckless/ Baby don’t tell me you love me, just indulge me/ With carnal knowledge, my appetite is bulging/ If he finds out, the consequences are endless/ Knowing neither one will ever forgive us/ Just one more time, and I swear that we’ll end this/ But for right now, let me drown in your senses/

Friday, December 20, 2013

The Devil Is Dope

/Sicker than 3 kids, 2 cups, 1 priest/ At Penn State dressing small boys up like Chun Li/ The devil is dope and I’m slicker than linoleum/ As I stand atop my podium, mouth secreting opium/ Got the nod from Misses Reagan, errbody yellow cakin’/ Dare you try stop, that’s quite an undertaking/ Come now before accident happens, this actually rapping/ I kick dope bars, I actually trapping/ Tie off 'till your vein burst, and feel your vein squirt/ Then that rush hit the brain then you're hittin' paydirt/ Smash! Sick as midgets fisting chickens/ Then bathing in it's blood, voodoo, singing hymnals Christian/ Fuck bars, I write bricks, pure Bolivian finest/ Pounding on my chest like a simian primate/ White devil, white devil, best watch what you come with/ The white devil is dope but that's fucking redundant/

Holler if you need it, warp needles to pieces/ Pure as the steeple that’s atop a cathedral/ O.D. ‘till you're feeble,  their portions are meager/ I got enough stashed you’ll be geekin’ till Easter/ Lucifer askin’ God to pull tight on the tourniquet/ A cavalcade of dopamine, ask,and I’ll furnish it/ Test not, know better, no cuts in the formula/ Or bleed out, see now, I had reason for warning ya/ You’se lightweight, I know better, stick to your flex bars/ See the real, read the real,  bitch it’s carved in my flesh scars/ You’se a chump to a freak, just a bump to a Ki/ You’se alotta things kid, but not fucking with me/ BeetleJuice, BeetleJuice, say my name of wax/ I rap, there’s tracks laced atop my tracks/ You’re dope like that muffin, not enough that it matters/ I’m so fucking dope, that real dope should be flattered/