lirik lagu stereotype – crocker
/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 succ-mb, 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 -ss up/
by now i know the culture, and it gave me ident-ty/
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 sh-lls…or follow/
/started booking gigs, sh-t 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, f-ck it, a package/
band balked, broke apart, and i felt it was tragic/
left to myself, recorded “crocker is a b-st-rd”/
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 d-mn, 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 sh-t/
if it means less sales, i’ll re-up on my ramen/
and continue in my role of hypothetical problem
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