Westside Rejection

/Spartanburg is killing me, bout to make a meal of me/ Blind and paralyzed, just can't get a feel for me/ The clubs don't want me, never try to deal with me/ Can't buy a fan, wont' turn a ear to me/ Reach one, teach one, they tell me that's played out/ Well, what the hell do I say now?/ Point out the obvious, that the game is shit/ So ya'll can turn and respond that I'm a hating bitch/ That I'd sing a different tune if I's making chips/ Man pull a pop rapper and go take a dick/ In every other craft, it's about the skill/ But not rap, it's not about the real/ It's a mouth w/ grills, or a bout with steel/ It's your fly ass bitch and x amount of pills/ Burning disk after disk that I hand for free/ On something so dope that it demands a fee/ All for promotion, that I handle myself/ While trying to stay cool and keep a hand on my health/ The UT joints w/ Diamond, to reppin' my people/ Working the Sessions tape and now prepping the sequel/ Pushing Caleb for artwork, that I can't pay for/ And if I had a job, I'd still pray that I'd made more/ Hell if you hearing this, I pray that you bought it/ Cause I was hard-headed and I dropped outta college/ So instead of a base and letter of scholar/ I decided on a mic and a life as a Crocker/ Thinking show & proves all you have to do/ Exhibit how you spit and they'll stand with you/ Like that really made sense as a man of couth/ Only to be proved as a damn-ded fool/ Been so damn concerned and consumed with truth/ That all of this will prolly go entomb my youth/ Game don't stop though and I won't quit it/ I can't cash out until I up my winnings/ So lock up your daughters and hide your women/ Cause I got at least a couple more rides to finish/ So if this your first time, they call me Terry/ Crocker, Jr. / And if they spit sick, I’m hocking tumors/ From a scene in a state that just might be rumor/ No culture down here 'cept Vic’s & Tea/ Those are sitting high and the drink is sweet/ And I don’t give a fuck what you think of me/ Though its prolly Eminem that you link to me/ So bring the Pabst Blue Ribbon and the Menthol Mavericks/ And lets sing another song about someone’s status/ While they burn another joint of some grade A shit pot/ I'll figure if I'm 3rd Bass or more Kid Rock/ Cause if I'm well spoken, arrogant, and trashy.../ Then opportunity is gonna go right past me/ No box for that, not Crocker rap/ So I'm just gonna spit until a heart attack/ Cause the art of fact, means artifact/ A lie is more cool, but I part from that/ I'm not a part of that/ Them marks is wack/ Bitch the scar on my head's more heart than that/ My bars is that, huh, hard as crack/ That leviathan, lethargic rap/ City tatted on my chest, city standing on my back/ I love this city, but it's a pity that it don't love me back/ Say it's not where you're from son, it's where you're at/ Well it's both to me, and all it does is stare on back/ Say it's not where you're from son, it's where you're at...Well it's both and all it does to me is stare on back/