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.