John Brown's Body (The B​-​Sides)

by Crocker

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A random collection of B-Sides


released June 7, 2013

Executive Produced By:
T. Crocker, Jr., J. "JubbyFUK" Mathis, C. Naquin



all rights reserved


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: Brown & Denver feat. Trublklef (Prod. By Walter Kronkite & JubbyFUK)
(Intro) /If this my last rhyme, just wanna say what's up/ Brought up in the gravel, with the spit & mud/ Script was kinda shit, but it was us/ Pieces of a family, rinsed in blood/ Heavy water dilute, what can you do?/ Always been the type to just stand and stew/ Sifting through the shit, sort a plan or two/ And eat my heart out, like a cannibal/

(Hook) /So carve yours out and we'll dine together/

/And say a lil' prayer bout the time and weather/

/And shine a light up and out when you find forever/

/I said shine a light out when you find forever/

(Verse)/ This town's baring down, and the time is creeping/ Business been leaving, it's all bereavement/ Speak as if it's scenic, but who'd believe it/ Rage against the silence, quietly screaming/ Fuck culture, what culture, our culture is corporate/ Generic, nondescript, vanilla, & boring/ How to quell the unrest, keep em sedated/ The American way of the American layman/ Duh duh duh, duh duh duh/ Get my farmer's tan up and register my gun/ Or totally scope hoes that's down to fuck/ In Mom's Nissan, bitches'll suck/ Rep. the Pub's or Dem like their pubes came in/ Like Pro Choice Or Life is why my bank is breaking/ Boy your attention is ripe for taking/ If it's dramatic, anyone could break in/ Understand the point I'm making?/ I'd blow my head off, but even I'm conditioned/ By the frame of my religion that forced submission/ If I had the nerve, I'd get my noose a cinched in/ And pop a bunch of pills just to ease the tension./But for all my cynicism, I think G-d'll listen/ Even though I’m a goy, gentile born a Christian/ So paint your soul whole, and start a fire/ And say your peace like it’s Edison’s on the wire/ Raise up a stink like you’re burning tires/ And expel what’s expired, gon’ reach up higher/ Tell em that you’re tired of the sires and liars/ Down shit’s creek knee deep in mire/ That’s it’s time a pauper took the king’ s attire/ So either eat a magazine or gon ‘head retire/
Track Name: Down On Sedgwick & Cedar (Remix) feat. Sax, O.D., & Hillary Keane (Prod. By Jack Bandit)
(Crocker Verse)

/Here’s a pinch from the solace that I can’t track down/ Looking for a high that’ll bring me back down/ Working up a smile, but for what purpose/ Now that my life is for your purchase/ Got what I asked for, now I’m an emcee/ With no degree, broke, and pinching my pennies/ If these the Wonder Years, where the hell is my Winnie/ On my soapbox, alone, ain’t nobody listening/ So I crank up the Cee-Lo, Ball, & G/ Paying for the light so the world can see/ That me and mine are more than the butt of the joke/ Thru these cigarette butts and bathtubs of dopes/ U-G-K 4 L-I-F-E/ Respects to the kings that relieved my stressing/ I love New York, but Southern as shit/ Just brash white trash with a bucket of spit/


/Spin that record, drop that beat/ Succumb to the numb, of which you speak/ Count the stars just as daylight peaks/ And chase that love 'till living cease/

(Background Vocal)

/I'm proud to say, I'm finally on my own.../
Track Name: The Devil Is Dope (Remix) feat. Ghani Gautama (Prod. By Pico 45)
/A shaytan, Satan, the accuser/ He who defies the order, self-building Confucian/ The fallen star metaphor for imperfect human form/ A romanticizing of our self-effacing scorn/ The rebel, the outcast, label use to defame/ Like Jesus in the temple kicking tables of change/ Tell Benedict I think him more the unrighteous/ The Beast that Revelations prophesied and surmises/ The opposer, the opponent, like who oppresses/ The light P spoke about, Morals and Dogma professes/ A John Milton intervention Christians turned to an icon/ To justify the slaughters they spent their whole life on/ A boogeyman people traumatize their kids with/ A Mel Gibson scene with a female depiction/ Ronald Regan, Ronald Regan, White Christ, what is this?/ Pitchfork, horns, and red elephant pendants/
Track Name: Marxist Muzik feat. Krosswordze (Prod. by 8-Bit Achen)
Ran I need more beats, heat that'll force streaks/ Awkward like barbecue in Cola. from Maurice/ Bars UT like a whore's teeth, Bey treated with more bleach/ Spit jihad like Gabriel had informed me/ Man kick's dog when it steps on the porch/ Dog leaves, next day, same thing as before/ Moral of the story?/ Hey Rihanna, what is it? you bored?/ Andre bounced, Big Boi is in neutral/ So the Dungeon Family turns & brings out Future?/ Word to Cam', no computer computin'/ I mean sure, there's high, then there's fucking Medusa/ Shyne found Ha-Shem, Loon found Allah/ Mase: Christ, Puff said Ciroc hu Akbar/ I'm skid' with G-Dep in the back of a cop car/ Railing powder cut with the ashes of 'Pac ya'll/

/Egg in the skillet brain, man, this is you/
/Running in place like elliptical's/
/To do anything else, it'd be a miracle/
/Steady claiming I'm too lyrical, claiming that I'm too lyrical/

(Verse 2)
/Same bat time...same bat channel/ Active rap animals shunned from all of the cameras/ I'm just a hop, skip and a jump/ from when i pop the clip in and I dump/ I got this, hot shit , better watch if I'm in the front/ Exits get blocked off , it's best to be not soft/ The recipe, next to me, is ecstasy's hot sauce/ My flow is a must have, know to give blood baths/ Watch as I bust ass ,if my hands do not touch cash/ The situations thicker than Black Dynamite's mustache/ But what's that , tough task/ Answers I just pass/ This is hard knock rock, y'all little faggots just cut class/ All that goon talk, it appears to be just trash/ When I start my part, it's all retarded, will brawl regardless/ Black Nathan Drake uncharted/ Hunt rappers down like I was Saul of Tarsus/ Just to get all them off the market/ I'm on the road to Damascus to kick some asses /and I'm enhanced with all the world's latest advances/
Track Name: Judas Sicarri [Soul On Ice] (Remix) (Prod. By Diamond D)
(Verse 1)
/The lost I represent, I come from their strand/ Lodge in every town, nay help for fellow man/ White trash seekin' purpose, after a place to stand/ Instead submissive nature, a speech, a reprimand/ For where Stonewall met death at the hands of his own/ From where fucking James Brown picked up his microphone/ Where Mama told me "Son, please leave that mic alone.."/ Said "There's no future in you reciting poems"/ "Assimilate Stephen, if you know what's good"/ I dismissed, seekin' battles, tryna see what's hood/ The lost seed of Gehazi, see the sin in my pigment/ So if ye are pale, it warrants a mention/ I long to be righteous but I lack the dimension/ So I offer up prayer in a sentence.../ "Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha'Olam.." "Bismallah"/ Jesus died, 33, in 33 A.D., raised on day 3, from that.../Trinity/ Man...what a co-wink-e-dink/ Templar, Templar, won't you bring me a dream/ Kristos translated to Christ/ Take "K," the eleventh letter and multiply thrice/ Gosh...what's it mean when you burn that cross again?/ Got you lost again/ Pope was Hitler youth, bet he loved the Jews/ Bring your tithes, sacrifices, offerings, dues/ All from the seeds that seen mockery grew/ Your mind, body, soul, and your property too/ My rhyme be awfully, thoughtfully due/ In a nice lil' cherry mahogany hue/ A part of me, is artfully, just targeting you/ And juxtaposing art next to marketing truth/ Want purpose, but see none/ Hip-Hop don't breath none/ Body mummified, on display next season/ And Hov's bitch...sold out, everyone near him/ Vampire...slurping up Kanye's serum/ Fuck your band, blog, scene, and your dub-step too/ And you're cute lil' art? Man, fuck that too/ It's bleeding estrogen/

(Verse 2)
/Bathed in the light, like the son of the morning/ Raised myself from the dead, felt my body contorting/ Soul on cold, what feelings you hoarding?/ So many chips on my shoulder, becomes a cross I'm supporting/ Fuck a Wayne verse...Where my Primo scratch?/ I'm Hip-Hop, it's obvious, like Cee-Lo's fat/ Secreting southern heat, like a T-Mo rap/ Screaming "He's Hardcore!" like Little Guidos' back/ Why did I give up Christianity?/ Romans killed Jesus Christ and made portraits of vanity/ Could you imagine Malcolm's shooters telling his story?/ Work a mosque in his name, professing his glory?/ What would you say to that?/ Remember...this is only a rap/ I'm no prophet or anti, just simply a rapper/ Or one racially confused cracker/
Track Name: Angels With Dirty Faces (Prod. By Shlohmo)
/Twenty minutes till the show, pulling hard on this smoke/ Funny see the roads where they lead and where you go/Sometimes I wish my brother would let go and watch me flow/ I wonder if he'd smile, wanna stop me, say it's dope/ I'm Dylan in my dreams, singing like a rolling stone/ Harmonica a wailin', death is screaming hold the phone/ To me that redefines the definition of shalom/ Chaos that feels controlled, in a moment all your own/ I wanna die on a soapbox, screaming that they know not/ Curmudgeon as an old pot boiling on a stove top/ I just wanna say my piece, bout how I'm never gonna find no peace/ Whether, weed, women, or speed, never be release that I'm gon' need/ Like death that greets your mother after years you seen her suffer/ The calm that washes over, shed a tear, and say you love her/ All the time you spent to be her peace, be her comfort/ It kills to see her go, but even more to see her suffer/

/We all fall short but some of us don't recover/

/Then our wings begin to wilt, thoughts of flying take us under/

/Think of what we were,then take on pity as a lover/

/...Angels With Dirty Faces

/ Like my uncle after money, after prison, he had nothing/ Came out a decade later and he smoked a piece of something/ Robbed of piece of mind, took that stimulant to hug him/ Guess that fact he didn't snitch, didn't mean that peace was coming/ Like my father's mother, who carved a life up out her beauty/ Everybody used to fawn, tell her she should be in movies/ Her vanity was peace, reassurance of her status/ A house, a couple sons, and a husband, she was magic/ Till she discovered he was cheating, the seams were now un-weaving/ That anger mixed with hurt, fueled a way for her to even/ So one Sunday after service, she confronts him in the car/ Reaches in the dash, as he sits and stares in awe/ She pulls a pistol out, tears well and start to fall/ Looks him in the eye and then she fires below her heart/ As if to say, in a most vindictive way, you took my peace of mind, but you'll never take my heart/
Track Name: By G-d Beaumont (Prod. By Jack Bandit)
/With death comes patience, or the other way around/ I like getting up just so I can fall down/ No concern for the clowns, I've endured greater/ Painstaking truths and other violations/ The way she gyrates is feeling quite lovely/ Love her cause she's pretty, hate me cause I'm ugly/ Built up the wall, she'll find no passage/ Honest, I feel more at home in caskets/ Tired of cheating death, or maybe it's cheating me/ Could never understand what God had saw in me/ I hate stupidity which is why I'll brick/ I'm more compound syllables and artsy shit/ Grown tired of the lies and the feeble alibis/ People will deceive you, come at you in disguise/ I hear the tick tick tock on hip-hop hop/ Beat winding down, bout to sti-sti-stop/ Culture is disposable, tell hell with a quotable/ Everything is fiscal, remember what was told to you/ You, have you no quarrel/ Head in the ground, just a trying to burrow/ What is this world, but of mice and men/ I shrug my shoulders and ignite my pen/ Toss back a brew and delight in sin/ Alive in the night to suffice my end/ Fractured my skull and then bled for some hours/ In Room 407, they sought after his power/ To keep my alive see, but I can't die now/ I'm too stubborn, naw, I won't lie down/ Mom gon cry now, but smiled when woke/ Ask me for words, I struggled but spoke/ Why should I live when others had perished/ What can I offer of merit to cherish/ Countless car wrecks, walked away unscathed/ As if I was Baptist, you would’ve sworn I’s saved/ just a miserable fuck, with sum lyrical knux/ Trying to put together sum residual bucks/ Tired of the beaten, path it’s misleading/ Tired of the tired, rappers I be seeing/ Tired of being broke, sick of all the debts/ Tired of Carolina, with nobody that rep/

I hate you as much as I hate me/
You fucks suck, you can’t emcee/
Say you spit, welll baby boy try me/
I’ll hook you up, E.R., I.V.’S
I’m the re-incarnate of B.I.G.
Say you best, boy you lying
I am hip-hop self realizing
And the real there’s no disguising

Think I turned a corner, naw I’m still bitter/ Apollo Creed, bad, and far from a quitter/ Self-deprecating, invading your speakers/ You gon feel me, like you feel Jesus/ Sicker than placenta that covers a fetus/ Hell I'd even kick ass as a paraplegic/ I’m an ill conceived notion that’ll grow into infamy/ Here it is folks, a holocaust of a symphony/ This is me cheery, this is my happy/ And if you whats’ up, duck, daffy/ The critics and the cynics bring life to my lyrics/ Their the motivating tool that nurture my spirit/ Never mind the Bollocks, it’s time for some Crocker/ Waiting for a broad, I’m conducting an opera/ There’s a chip on my shoulder the size of Gibraltar/ Combined with the fervor of a nut at the alter/
Track Name: Masochism feat. Hillary Keane (Prod. By Walter Kronkite)
/It doesn't stop and it never fades/ So I dream of peace, 'round the Everglades/ Out in the cut, me and nature/ Each moment solace, ripe to savor/ See the past and I wave it bye-bye/ Just me, a broad, and a fuckin' my-ty/ Tired of standing out like tye-dye/ Tryin' to focus, and expand on my high/ It ain't all love, it's salt to slugs/ Bitter quitter, that walk with thugs/ Astute convicts, slidin' jewels/ I stand aghast, but a lyin' tool/ Lose myself in the mire of pools/ Of thought, and cost just as dyin' do/ That's what it's 'bout, right? Wealth and passing/ A memory fading, never lasting/

/Let me roam in the garden of Adam and Eve/ To bare witness of what the sinless see/ No genocide, or hate or treason/ No logical thought of rhyme or reason/ No sense of time, to stymie seasons/ Not a time with the slime and the grimy heathens/ Oh my ego, Oh my ego/ Am I crazy? Word to Cee-Lo/ Nah, I'm just trying to find my Nemo/ And lose my hair, like a dose of chemo/ Take my deeds and barter grace/ Make a path through my father's way/ Create a family and then abandon/ And pretend like what the hell had happened/ Knowing I gave it all up for rappin'/ Pissed away on the whim to chances.

/Time to go, faster I do/ There I sit, bleed like Pirus/ Round top floor, see the sky view/ I know love, and I swear it's by you/ You let it go, chalk it up to fate/ I'm martyred up, and I fail to say/ 'Fore you leave, best not to lay/I know lonely and it's a stayin'/ You say no, sir, I've been prayin'/ I say bullshit, start conveying/ All my reason for my anguish/ Why I love here, and why I languish/ You say, in that case, grab that stainless/ And prove to me that it's fuckin' painless.

/I can't let go/
/I can't let go/
/It's the reason I love livin'/
/Justifies me and my sinnin'/
/I don't need you/
/I can't see you/
/You'll be the reason I last too long/
/You'll be the reason to rap this song./
Track Name: 11-11 (Prod. By Jack Bandit)
/I know you're not single, but is that really important?/ I'm a bit compulsive and am in need of a supporter/ Presence is robust, enhances the night line/ And if life's a game show, you resemble a lifeline/ Make time seem a detail utterly minute/ Manipulate rhymes too, how could I not lie truths?/ Conjure a facade to make me seem more presentable/ Straighten up my face and liquidate a miracle/ Words are passe if describing the connection/ Two born out of depression & attention deficit confessions/ The irresistible force meeting the irrefutable complex/ Coupled with speed likings, menthol's, and bomb sex/Probably disregarded whatever the sign said/ For you are a bold phrase in a sea of fine print/ A harmonious voice plucking beauty of nothing/ Maybe I'm too forward but its moving me or something..../

/Conflicted interests, trying to feed our senses/
/I feel your tension, knock at your defenses/
/I see your smile, behind it something pensive/
/ But your two cents, I value more expensive/

/You speak to me in ways, that sickens me to the core/ It tears away at the very image of me, conflicts and so much more/ But to ignore it would be foolish, arrogant, and brutish/ A injustice to the kid inside that's lollipops and tulips/ Supposing you kiss me, but that ain't hip-hop/ That's more Chris Carrabaa, board shorts, and flip-flops/ Robert Smith and shit, make sure the wick is lit/ And in my depraved mind you more than benefit/ You're as scarred as I am, cynical, and un-trusting/ And I'd love to see my heart as soon as your done dusting/ Glance at your wrists and know I have my own/ Thinking all life is as mundane as one of my poems/ Boxing up our trinkets, to try and cash them in later/ When we tire of playing the sucker and finally lose our flavor/ Finding the right note, only to bend and mutilate/ But for now I'ma smile until my tooth'll ache/
Track Name: A Song For You (Prod. By Krosswordze)
/Off but I'm on, need I say more?/ What and how do I do, when can't reach the door/ Seems like a chore, one that ain't too fruitful/ Makes me question self-worth and if I'm that useful/ Hate you but I love you, always comforting/ Known you'd never leave me here wondering/ Since Dad left, you've been right there by me/ Throwing gas on the fire so it ain't that dying/ School after school, you kept near by me/ So it was either fists flying or me, broke down, crying/ Over Dad, step-dad, always inspiring/ Me, to bring hate, either out or inside me/ Had me five years old put a kid on a stretcher/ Daycare calling' Mom, telling' her to come get him/ Diggin' in the sandbox, tunnel to hell/ Naw, I ain't a shrink, but I think, something had fell/

Verse 2:
Guidance counselor after counselor, you stood right by me/ 1st thru 5th, as the time went flying/ Fight after fight, you ain't stop trying/ Then you'd guilt me on Sunday as if you ain't try me/ Mom's tripping on us talkin', says I shouldn't know you/ I'm playing dumb like "Who?" She says, "He'll control you"/ Held me when she was hurting, mental or physical/ And when it got pivotal, you proved to be critical/ Woodbine, woodbine, just you, me, and Mom's/ I miss it so much, but, fuck that song/ Ten years old: you showed me what coke does/ Never could recall when you showed me what hope was/ Showed me: Love doesn't last, shoe always drops/ And if I ever got close, made sure it always stopped/ When we left the city, you hopped in with me/ Tried to let you go, but I knew you'd miss me/

Verse 3:
/Always said you were enough and I always bought that/ If I tried and forget, you always brought back/ If it was self-esteem, I always lost that/ And you'd look aways, as if, you ain't saw that/ Took away my fight, just left me to take it/ Fuck was that about? You knew that I'd hate it/ Turned cheek after cheek, until I regressed/ Just began to keep quiet, kept it all in my chest/ Play some heavy metal, start dreaming' of death/ Start reciting all the reasons that I would have left/ And here we are again, a decade later/ The same mix playing and I reach for the fader/ Nineteen years, you've been playing my savior/ But every time I think, it was you'd who I'd cater/ Matter fact, fuck you, and your backhanded blessings/ I'm sick and tired of you, my grandstanding depression/
Track Name: Westside Rejection (Prod. By Pico 45)
/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 repping 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 & prove's 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/
Track Name: FML feat. Katalyst, Pauley Fransisco, & Lindsay Keane (Prod By Jack Bandit)
(Verse 1)
/Down wind with resistance, futile to the finish/ Dark in the light, seems way more intrinsic/ Picture perfect...but the frame's bent/ Perfect picture, with the same shit/ Dense, as if I'm layered, cause I posture a lot/ If only to myself, 'til my problems forgot/ Problem with myself?/ My condition to rot/ Create, then abandon, a submission for naught/ What's success without stability?/ Just a moral victory?/ Another tragic anecdote that fades into our history?/ Never worth the auction block at Sotheby's or Tiffany's/ But for seven beans, I'll show you things, this music's ripped from me/

/Staring at the screen for 8 more hours/
/Take in stride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/
/Squeezing inspiration 'till I feel it sour/
/Come another ride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/

(Verse 2)
/Find an issue I can prod at/ Maybe I write another G-d rap/ Or the depth of which my scars lack/ Contemplate..'til I fall back/ Bismallah, is Isa in my makeup?/ Time...How much more can I take up?/

/Waste of time, waste of space/ N****r and a pasty face/ Callin' you out on your shit, advanced without the laces laced/ But I ain't even trippin', just caught on to the pimpin'/ Tried to blind me with religion/ Time is tickin' hoe...You're time is tickin' hoe/

/Staring at the screen for 8 more hours/
/Take in stride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/
/Squeezing inspiration 'till I feel it sour/
/Come another ride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/

(Verse 3)
/I feel like I ain't slept in a hundred nights/ But this is what you wanted, right?/ Bright lights and everyone around/ Runnin' for the kick, just to get Charlie Brown'ed/ No more security blankets; Surprise Linus/ Out in the cold, left you with sniffles like a dry sinus/ And in that very moment, what you realize is/ A picture perfect plan & theory isn't an applied science/ Minus the hype, feel like a failure with nothin' to show/ Minus your pride, feel like your highs where just more so, your lows/ Look in your eyes and lie, just to cushion the blow/ But then the mirror replies, "But I thought you wanted to blow?"/

/Fill in the blank/
/Won't you color in the frame/
/Certain of your choice/
/Careful of the paint/
/Fill in the blank/
/Won't you color in the frame/
/Certain of your choice/
/Careful of the paint/

/Staring at the screen for 8 more hours/
/Take in stride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/
/Squeezing inspiration 'till I feel it sour/
/Come another ride, na, na na, na, na, na, na/
Track Name: Supernova Burnout feat. D.C. (Prod. By Walter Kronkite)
(1st Verse)
/Critical enough, feel it's pivotal to touch/ That essence 'fore it leaves and eviscerates the dust/ Just to muster up a lyric that capitulates my trust/ To think self-sacrifice demonstrates my love/ I see the hand of the clock, I'll demand that it stops/ Damned, tryna plan, and Uncle Sam on my jock/ Youth a shame of a sham when you stand on a prop/ But what's the worth of a man? Where he lands or how he drops?/ Carolina's abstract, wunderkid, tea sippin' Mad Hat/ Measure me, how I build, not by my ASCAP/ Praise to be God, I keep fallin' to the trappings/ All I took from Jesus was love and take your lashings/ So past transgressions and all man's lessons/ I'm a fucking emcee that demands your attention/ Whether broke or prosperous, po' or prosperous/ You can call rappers "hot," just distinguish me as phosphorous/

And I might fall/ And this might burn down/
But right now, I won't turn down/
Told me, you'd thought I'd learn now/
'Nother cliche, supernova burnout/

(3rd Verse)
/Absent but I'm present, sometimes I'm second guessing/ I'm the man, but still a man, and mistakes are my collections/ See me with my shrine and the temple I'm erecting/ Watch it go astray and no one find objection/ I'm in my prime, sure, but when I my legacy as well/ Yet and still, leave the best of me in every bar I yell/ 'Cause who among you'se really testing me for real?/ Crocker, ye and far, I wrote the recipe for ill/
Track Name: You Suck (Like The Pacers) feat. Hillary Keane & SOHI (Prod. By JubbyFUK)
We so hot, got our feet in the kiddie pool/ Stay on the grind, 'cause I sweep with a shitty broom/ Stay on your mind, balls deep/ Can you dig it? You.../Motherfuckers suck/ No teeth, cup the genitals/

(Crocker Verse)
/Dan, you ever lace a blunt with some Adderall/ Got me restless as a steer at a cattle call/ Take a beat by the horns like a matador/ Tito Santana!/ But I'm an ofay like I'm a Macklemore.../(You get it?..Fuck it)/ Keep a pistol in the tackle-box/ Summerslam '92 in the Magnavox/ That pistol read "Mattel," reading nipples like they're braille/ I'm Kenan, SNL, you ('re) milkbox, fucking Kel/ Tommy Pickles crystals, Chuckie Finster hairs/ High enough to wanna twinkle toes like Fred Astaire/ Snatch a broom and stick a bear...(Grr!)/ Gettin' slope-intercept, watchin' Surf Ninjas/ And tell Mrs. Claus that I don't work winters/ Turpentine liquor shots and Newport hunnids (hundreds)/ You rappers tickle me, pause; Teddy Ruxpin/