/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 broke, 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
