I bet on myself, I wet myself, only the classics on my shelf, only the sickest tracks, only the illest crack, I knock the volley off, I blaze a fat spliff–I don’t even cough, throwback humanitarian, I rail against Mad Cow and B.P.A., I scheme and scam for ways to get my hands on pure M.D.A., holler for Master Shake, holler for grass court tennis, RIPs to good friends Robert and Dennis, to Limelight, to Factory, but Vinyl was my spot, amid the treachery, because one should tolerate a lot for fine art and freedom, which I promise you, which I’m compelled to bring, and if you get heat, you better call Saul, or give Fabricant a ring. Thanks for hearing out my clownish verse, contact firstname.lastname@example.org if you’ve been cursed…stick with me if you want to laugh and learn some shit, if you’re alternative. If you disagree, just debate with me. I love that shit. Formula 411, Brooklyn.
People been asking who is Crack, let’s see…Did you catch the dude with the white furry Kangol along the wall in the back of Cielo? Stealthy. Betcha didn’t even see those puffs I stole off my bat. Betcha didn’t see that Kitty I bumped off my thumb. Old school. I still think those kids at pill reports are dumb. Crack’s a humanitarian but he hates people. Crack’s machiavellian but he hates evil. Not the best at tennis yet but I still love to play. Doesn’t mean I can’t hit a backhand like Richard Gasquet. Crack got some notoriety now and is writing for pay. Many trades, scrape K with many razor blades, I cut thick straws behind classic crackhead shades. My Cannabis–just the highest high grades. My hits? I test ’em right on the page. 7400–my novel? The rage. Le talent ne signifie pas de pouvoir mais aucun ne fait le pouvoir le talent moyen. Keep readin’. Formula 411, Brooklyn.
He loves trippin’, spinnin’, candy flippin’. He’s vapin’. If he has to, he’ll use a metrocard for scrapin’. The base he gets? The best in the market place. Makes his mind race. Leaves him frozen in his fuckin’ place. Strains? Usually has at least 2. Sealeds? Cracks ’em open with pliers, old school. Doesn’t favor alcohol but once in a while, he’s coffee Patron sippin’. Off defected? Mad tracks he’s rippin’. Often times he’s got some 411 for you. And he loves others that open up your mind too. The Formula. Brooklyn.