Week 19 Party & Bullshit

(Crocker Verse)

/I've been a terror since the public school era/ Arrests, drug tests, buncha shit on my chest/ Full of spit and vinegar, workin' out the integer/ Negative to positive, opposition miniature/ Fuck if I'm white? Most pale in comparison/ Style can't afford like they're Harrison/ Gonna talk but they're hardly mean/ Just a dumb, loud addict son: Charlie Sheen/ Buh, buh, Bastards/ Uh, uh, uh...Winning/ Spit Tiger's Blood....son, uh, uh, uh...Winning/ Here's to my state, that still wanna secede/ And to Representative Bright, that wants our own currency.../That shit's fuh, fuh, fuh, funny/ Our state government's some duh, duh, duh..Dummies!/ The hell are you doin'?/ We're still broke/ And ask the President, "where the hell's my hope?"/

Week 17 Mumble Mumble

(Crocker Verse)

/In the garden of Eden, deceptively scheming/ On my next come-up, as I was banished for treason/ Famished for seasons.../So I puffed cigarettes until it damaged my breathing/ Corroded my lungs, but suppressed my appetite/ All this..for just an apple bite, heh../ Cataclysmic makeup broke down to it's core/ Funny, the burdens you take up and then you turn and ignore/ 'Neath the industry, near the light of tall towers/ Son of king...rather play a wallflower/ Go forth and document this whole mockumentary/ Succubus king, helluva responsibility/ Reach for the stars with Joe Theisman's agility/ Wolves still try to make a meal of me/ Creep like *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh* *duh*/


(Kronkite Verse)

/Whoa, sweet Jehovah's witness/ Console your mistress, pound of blow in minutes/ I'm geeked out my mind as I run from daggers/ As I'm chased by dumb, air polluting rappers/ I turn my brown eye when I learned I'm crowned/ The best in the south, and yet still I frown/ Cause round my town, I see tops down/ And people pulled over, and still see cops found/ Another one dead, another one bled/ See superstar athletes take one in the leg/ Pushin' so close to being able to pull away/ And all it's gonna take is just one mixtape/ I'm dreamin' of drinkin' and being the best of the evening/ As rest get mad as their bitches keep creaming/ Just know when I'm on top, I ain't never leaving/ Fuck you filthy snakes in the garden of Eden/

Week 12 Just Fire

(Crocker Verse)
/Deliberate, methodical, thought out as a bombing/ By extremists, cuttin' edge like the side of incisors/ Spit I peel walls like I'm huffing on primer/ Ill right? I disturb still night/ Seep into your dreams; Ellen Page & steel knives/ Hard Candy, flow like I'm rocked up/ The best; 'less you're diggin' Biggie or 'Pac up/ Hell to stop me, you better deal for Jason Voorhies/ If beaten tracks equaled gore.../Then blood would be pouring/ Every line soaring...over your head/ Like it's a B.O.B. hook/ So make a wish on my bars and pretend their airplanes/ Say it's disgusting, say I'm piss crazy/Naw, I'm not a sadist; Just rap's Dick Cheney/ Hit a tiger with a Taser, hope that she maims me/ If you don't speak "Crocker," then...bet it's an issue/ Then I'll fly a plane into your booth, just to make it official/

Week 9 Dear 1st Time

(Crocker Verse)
/Hungover from the night prior/ Twisted as mic wires/ Look over at the clock: 3 hours to light fires/ On a stage, for the first scheduled/ Promotion crazy/ See my name in the ads, emotion pays me/ Feelings never felt/ Shower and change/ Shave in the mirror, lyrics play, and I hear 'em/ Recite 'em in repetition, I burn a set-list/ Feelin' higher than sparrows, like I'ma need a guest list/ Clean my kicks lovely, then I'm up out the door/ Know the songs backwards and now I'm assured/ On that raised platform, my heart skips a beat/ But I stand and conduct/ My own symphonies/ See familiar faces and their pride, it beams/ As I glide through the sky and I ride it's seams/ Girl greets as I leave, been an all day patron/ Said I was the best she'd seen, and I hide my shaking/

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/

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.../

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/

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/

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/

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/

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/

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./