The McCarthy Era Vol. 2

by Crock Cosell & Walter Kronkite

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about

Weeks 21-41 of Underground Transmission Wednesdays.

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released 14 January 2014

T. Crocker, Jr., C. Diamond

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Crocker Spartanburg, South Carolina

Co-Founder of LVLRN RCRDS (Lovelorn Records).
Your Favorite Rappers Favorite Cracker
Spartanburg, SC Native.
Marxist Gnostic.

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Track Name: Week 21 The Game Don't Stop
(Crocker Verse)
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.

(Hook)
/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/
Track Name: Week 22 The Missing Speech
(Crocker Verse)
/Now we're bombing Libya, helping out the rebels/ Working class and college students wanting something better/ Tiring of the tyranny, I hope Obama's sincere/ Cause if it's from the heart, I almost wish that I'da went there/ Love and admiration, tell hell with all the politics/ Sick of suit & ties after prominence that's posturing/ Then wanna speak for God, Jesus Christ, Or Allah/ Agenda laden sons try and fake the role of Fah-Jah/ Congratulations Egypt, stood up for their freedom/ Shouts out to Tunisia, they wouldn't take it either/ Couldn't speak up for the people for fear of the policing/ A right we take for granted, as if they'd come and seize us/ Sad that in this country that corrupt precedes a leader/ As soon as one has parked, they soon forget that there's a meter/ Staring out the window, pretend the view is scenic/ Half the time I hear a poignant thought, I wonder if they mean it……/ Now they killed Osama, that only took a decade/ Think of all the lives we lost, think of all the mess made/

(Kronkite Verse)
/Governing the people, looking through the peep hole/ 4 more for the patriot, no more for the steeple
War will keep us together,... alive/ Until we reach the end where all my brothers die/ And I thank god for the militants/ Praise Allah for they ignorance/ I try to drown them out/But the water just keep on lifting them/ And the fire keeps us burning/ And the crooked keep on earning/ I gotta couple charges/ I should learn to quit burning them/ My life is like a chess game/ America's like a cess pool/ We don't go hand in hand/ But what else am I do/ So I kill another cell before I go to hell/ With another funny drink, should've saved it for bail/
As the rest look at me like "another bum who smells?"/ My country' tis of thee, as long as that shit sells/
/So I wave off the anger as another lonely teen/But I grew up in a country that won't let me free/
Track Name: Week 23 My Repressed Former Self
(Crocker Verse)
/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/
Track Name: Week 24 Yuga Fury
(Crocker Verse)
/Bastards, motherfucker, this is nature versus nurture/ Angry since a toddler, defecating Gerber/ You can rest assured of, we're nothing like you heard of/ You're a flea, I am Flea, go and get your work up/ Weeding all the flakes out, spitting cups of Pert Plus/ You're Harold Camping son, you could never wor(ry) us/ Brett, I, uh, represent the Burg bruh/ Never put the mic down until I incite a murder/ Of, crooked politicians or voyeuristic clergymen/ Or hopefully the capital...yell "EVERYBODY HURRY IN!"/ Or, "Hurry Up! Hurry Up And Die!"/ And that will represent me till I scurry through the sky/ Far as South Carolina go, I only native worthy/ I am just that confident, and you recognize it surely/ Ignore me if you like, but you can't deny the rep now/ For me to even vocalize it, seems to me a step down/
Track Name: Week 25 I Need A Therapist
(Crocker Verse)
/Hi kids, did you know I'm a nihilist?/ And for three years the gleam in my iris has been for Miley Cyrus/ Spat with a flow that I swore to G-d was Midas/ Then they cancelled more of my shows than Christopher Titus/ Just dated nine months, happy for the stamina/ But then the broad left me for a fireworks store manager/ Said I was insensitive, that I'd pissed away the magic/Then I responded with, "Uh...Crocker Is A Bastard?"/ Guess it's back to gettin' hammered, snortin coke from plastic baggies/And havin' unprotected sex with post operation trannies/ Send my ex pictures of us fucking in the fanny/ In my Ninja Turtle jammies, just a hamming for the camera/ Hit 'em with a smash, a little onomatopoeia/ And on the sly, drop that I contracted gonorrhea/ JK, at least, I wanna say I think so/ But for now, I'ma get back to this hooker's ass and my quest for finding Nemo/
Track Name: Week 26 My First Date With Casey Anthony
(Crocker Verse)
/Something, something, something; Mohandas Gandhi/ I'm so hip-hop, I got singles from Blondie/ Don't even wanna write, hell nothing inspires me/ Swag so hard, my deodorant's tiring/ To the listeners, here's you a stand from me/ I would fist pump Casey Anthony/ Lovelorn Records, I'ma build me a canopy/ On a bridge, and I'll throw shit off just for calamity/ I know what you're thinking: My real flow slacking/ But who really gives a fuck son? Milquetoast Mackin/ If you're poor and vote Republican, you are a tool/ Citibank, Merrill-Lynch, you conspicuous fool/ You speak with the zeal of indigenous rule/ Here's my nuts, kick, belligerent mule/ Caleb, am I making a smidgen of sense?/ Fuck it, my brain's limp like an impotent dick/ Watch it burn on your lips like a syphilis clit/ It, I mean my spit, it's some intricate shit/ After Week 52, I'm playing the back/ But till then, it's gonna hurt, like a labia graft/ Punchline, set-up, I prevail often/ And have your broad talk to G-d, Michelle Bachman/ Take the first "R" out of Crocker, whaddya got?/ The verb and the noun, ask your girl how I rock/
Track Name: Week 27 #Smash
(Crocker Verse)
/ Give a fuck for what they said it be, white devil, leprosy/ 2nd Kings, 5 Verse 27, step with me/ Rearrange your plumbing like a hysterectomy/ And I wonder why the never check for me/ The Nation said Yacub had created us for weaponry/ Pigment left a cleft in me, genetic heresy/ And since the Caucasian is genetically recessive/ Maybe nature tries to correct it with depression/ Higher than white suicide stats/ But predictable as white suicide raps/ In the name of the father, the son, and holy spirit/ Maybe poly-theistic/ Maybe not, who am I question/ Just another born of a Constantine lesson/ I just do my one-two, and try keep my head up/ Even though things is eating at me on the dead up/ Guess it’s easier to deal with money and security/ And a lover reassuring you, in spite of all the scrutiny/ All of my emotions in the middle of a mutiny/ Lord, what to do with me/ My brother’s got a family, I just got a grudge/ One I cant stop from raking in the mud/ So I go and grab my dawg again, to take another loss again/ That hopefully we gain from, get some people talking, then/ I’ll build another wall within, take another fall with sin/ Like maybe this is all pretend/ So for my next lover, careful what I feel for you/ As I build another cross that I swear is built for two/
Track Name: Week 28 Hand Me My Monster
(Crocker Verse)
/Bastardly fashioned, dastardly lashings / Beat 'till I'm blue, smile actually passive/ Masochist tailored, factually addict/ Spawned coke residue, laughably tragic/ Monkey on my back is savagely rabid/ Smile, smile, smile passably manic/ Pop another pill again, conjure up my will again/ My debt crowd the net like middle of Wimbledon/ Feels like I've spat every bit of the phlegm in him/ Hell if I leave, they'll be brimming with ten of him/ Sour grapes, wine, and cheese/ Can we just get back to the rhyming please/ Can I just buy back the time in threes/ Or have I beguiled time to leave/ Catharsis on the way, then I don't know/ Like what in the hell should I go on for/ M-Seven-M to the solo shows/ I wonder where the hell the good promo goes/ Starting at these pictures, like history changes/ Staring at these pictures like they're visibly tainted/ Mountains into mole hills, memories languish/ And here's another verse that made misery famous/ When I say Pity You Say Party/ Now when I say Pity You say Party/
Track Name: Week 29 Withdrawls In Newberry
(Crocker Verse)
/All in my head, that's all where I stay/ I think, I don't think, I'm at a loss at what to say/ Everything I love, I go and take it for granted/ Pound it into dust, wipe my face with the granite/ Work open heart surgery on this canvas/ No sterilizing, an infection can manage/ Guess I plead for sabotage.../ Guess I fiend for that barrage.../ They tell me lighten up, as if I don't get it/ Like this is all an act, I just need the attention/ Like more than fucking fifty of you pay it a listen/ Yeah....this is all for attention.../ Is there where I stall at?, plateau out/ Where life says time, take the asshole out/ Work job here, job there, fall into obscurity/ Drink up, drug out, friends aren't even sure of me/ Trailer in the cut, smells of urine and liqueur/ Wood panel walls, in need of some fixtures/ Mattress on the floor, ashtray is beside it/ Food on the floor, with the laundry and wiring/ Die of some disease that bleeds out slowly/ So I feel it every day, like a could right o'er me/ And I’ll do it alone......./ Yeah, it'll do it alone/ Sounds fantastic, true asshole fashion/ Just another round of some white trash static/ Write till I’m catatonic ‘tween punching a clock/ Swallow gin & tonic’s, regurgitating the rot/ Swerve, jerk another nerve into to a knot/ As if I’ll find a random word that’ll serve me a stop/ God if you hear me, the joke’s getting old/ Attracting dust mites, maybe gathering mold/ Blather on and on, incoherently rambling/ Now either life’s bad or my sanity’s scrambling/ Or having a tough time with my vanity managing/ Or maybe it’s all just the man in me’s scampering/ Teehee, teehee, Crocker is emo/ Watching Rome burn as I fiddle with Nero/ Impetuous, incredulous, formulating exodus/ Nurse another cigarette and then wrestle with hesitance/ Beat a dead horse, like there’s life left in it/ Soon It’s gonna end, just give me one more minute/ Purse my lips into a grimace while I swallow my Guinness/ And redefine addiction and paying a penance/ Stewing on the seeds and the place where I lost em/ Somewhere between here and a bar down in Austin/
Track Name: Week 30 Gunmen Tribute
(Verse 1) /So hard to the find the words that replicate the original/ Either life is a game or one hell of a interview/ Same questions keep affecting, time, time, and again/ Feel disaffected, (that) kinda naked where it bleeds through your skin/ Shuffled all around since I could remember/ Only months that I treasured were June and December/ Three Christmas mornings, between the various parents/ Never thought about it much, but I'm apparently wary/ Buried Adam, Matt left, moved away from the others/ Pined for my Father, but I stayed with my Mother/ Struggled with the book and the word that they'd preach/ Go behind, fact check, had me down on my knees/ The redeemer paid the ultimate and gave it all up/ Or is that a lie to, and Romans made it all up?/ Gave a Jew a Greek name that is faker than fuck/ But never question, bow your head, and just say it's enough/

(Verse 3) /Is it really worth the pain and tribulations you face?/ Contributing to the images and shit that they say?/ Making it thru the ridicule and procuring your place/ Obscured your but a blur in the populous race/ I guess from the shit that I've experience, I feel a greater purpose/ But that's a feeling, as I've found to be true, most feelings are worthless/ Speculate, perpetuate, while I'm skimming the surface/ Guess I'll figure my truth when they jerk on my curtain/
Track Name: Week 31 Acrimonious Apogee
(Crocker Verse)
/Never smoke a cigarette in jest, son I'm the best/ Or damn near close to.../ B, I'm so boastful to be so local/ So Spartanburg like I could be better/ But my ignorance is a hindrance to my cheddar/ Lactose intolerant, volatile acknowledgment/ Bottle full of promises, swallowing my consciousness/ Bag ridden irises, conjuring my viruses/ Jesus Christ it's time that I Pontious Pilate this/ Guess it's back to philandering, more psyche damaging/ Lovelorn Records, my people's, managing/ B.S. One, Muta Scale, The Manifesto/ More coming from nothings, watch hand: Presto!/ Leave it where it is, keep it where they know you/ There's no going back, not to Chernobyl/ But from me, bet there's more bars, just watch me/ My time ain't up yet, Muammar Gaddafi/
Track Name: Week 32 Third Time
(Crocker Verse)
/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/
Track Name: Week 33 A Little More Down Time
(Crocker Verse)
The fuck do you want from me?, if I got, I got it honestly/ Like they didn't write the song for me, see me an anomaly/ Friends say that I'ma make it, I'ma put us on the map/ Like the cities gonna love me, gonna put me on it's back/ Like I put it on my chest, black ink, see me rep/ Instead see the stress accumulate with every breath/ Everyone that's backed me, encouraged me a club hit/ I just shook my head, said I'll never do the dumb shit/ People say I think I"m better, where's my competition/ Someone as consistent, pens intense and pensive lyrics/ Gives of you his spirit, expends his sins and makes you feel it/ Like I never woulda guessed it'd get redundant as the realest/ I'm sick and tired of crowing, when ain't a motherfucker listening/ And if I ever got the crown, I'd probably go and take a shit in it/ Same thing I had wanted, is now what I take to task for/ Carolina's greatest burning loosies on your back porch/
Track Name: Week 34 4 Real Gouda
/Full of coulda, woulda, shoulda, then I cut it till it lacerate/ Subtle, mumble, muddled in the mire then I exacerbate/ A tete with the day, so I can make it to the night/ Assured the cure is in the blur, unnerved, I pray it's right/ I hate myself, I hate I failed/ I hate that wack rappers are gonna live to tell the tale/ That the real will be dispelled, dissipate up into hell/And that stupid motherfuckers bank accounts will probably swell/ Like...Fuck Rap Music/ I didn't know money was license to act foolish/ And Fuck You................./Jesus was a fake name; Born and died a Jew/ Muslims didn't do it, we'll be a third world soon/ Mormons wear special drawers, I'm higher than the moon/ Another shot of Bouka, then I'm carving out her womb/ (No Catholic Church...Word to Ghani Gautama, Bitch)
Track Name: Week 35 Broome High
(Crocker Verse)
/My last will and testament: weed, speed, and mescaline/ And a glimmer of a notion, that most of you'se irrelevant/ If it wasn't for your mix, you'd sound like shit/ Pound the same ideas into your weak ass spit/ Like: "Money, Bitches, Weed...Man"/ "I'm such a fucking G man."/ BOO! You're killing me Smalls/ I spit flint, ground into to grit, to make calligraphy ya'll/ Hieroglyphs in a inch of my writ forms a symphony ya'll/ Beethoven deaf, catch wreck, death sent for me ya'll/ Gargle napalm while I lit up my cigarette/ Feel that bass drum and piss 'em off like the President/ George W Perry, Michelle Palin.../See what I did there? Ah fuck it/ Comatose Crocker, the comeback cracker/ Forty-seven staples and a magnum wrapper/
Track Name: Week 36 Not This Again
(Crocker Verse)
/I purposefully burnt myself the other week...on my arm/ So tired of turnin' the other cheek/ Gripped in the thro's, here goes another show/ Repeated viewings until it all explodes/ Nobody noticed the burns, it's kinda funny/ My disposition, well, it's all sunny/ Let it go, let it go, I can't when you won't bury it/ Downtown, parade, casket, horse-drawn chariot/ I'd stand up and scream, just for the sake of screaming/ And say "This is what you get for dreaming!"/ Make it dimmer, I need it, I'm a Baptist born sinner/ Hungry, no dinner/ Tell my people I love 'em and I'm sorry/ It would never be flossin', flash, or Ferrari's/ It should've been more, just couldn't get it together/ L'Chaim, here's to hopin' that never forget 'em/
Track Name: Week 37 Ole Country Heart
(Crocker Verse)
/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/
Track Name: Week 38 Herman Cain feat. Feather Fly Focus
(Crocker Verse)
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/ Assalam & 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 you feel the slits in your feet/ 'Till the shit nicks and rips another inch your seat/ 'Till your shit trips and flips 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/
Track Name: Week 40 Guy Fawkes Was A Catholic Terrorist
(Crocker Verse)
/New millennium isolation, apathy, & and cynicism/ over dramatized confessionals, that bend your ear to attention/ Big Brother spies, and yet we scoff at the mention/ Scream Illuminati, but still constantly listen/ To these acts with monosyllabic lyrics/ Embalm my soul, woe, and pretend that I get it/ Hope, change, rope, hangs/ Swing low, sniff cocaine/ All the makings of a has been that never was/ Never lightened up enough to have tried and measured up/ Idols that divide, the kool-aid turpentine / turnikit tie offs work till it you feel it jerk inside/ Pacify the masses, slower than molasses/ and pick out pretty bouquets that might adorn my casket/ Watch the idiocy induce my own hara-kiri/ Immolate like a Buddhist with a Communist nearing/ A Marxist Gnostic, for I seek refuge in no one/ Dig up the Bolshevik Lenin, the peace one's ho-hum/ The lost caliphate , rebuke the magistrate/ I might prostrate but still openly exacerbate/ Beaten as Joshua, as the Romans lacerate/ Or as special as a fair skinned Shiite who lives to agitate/ Namaste to the five percent, to the rest find shelter/ John The Revelator prophesied of my Spector/Sermon at Deer Park, Sermon at Temple Mount/ Both aged 30, suppose the difference now/ I wish a Mazdayana wake, leave my bones for the vultures/ To symbolize the life of what's become of my culture/ For people like Markoff who haven't the slightest/ Wears a wave cap and baggy clothes like its righteous/ Peace to Clarence Thirteen, ye are Elohim/ Higher than Seraphim, skied in Medellin/
Track Name: 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 Balkan/ 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/