KZ Lyrics!

Here’s a random sampling. I have years worth of true-crime narratives. Who has hot beats?  

I’m still a good-hearted crook, 
Feds have yet to put me on a hook. 
My pockets getting kinda shook, 
Better hurry up and write this book. 
Took a second look at the breakfast nook, 
I should build a lab and learn to cook. 
This whole process is gonna suck, 
Assess the risk like, “what the fuck…” 
I vowed to stop, quit pressing luck,
Still play the game like bishop or rook. 
I could start it off now with an onion of that soft white.  
Sprinkle in the baking soda, stomp it five or six times.
Dope game is not entirely like selling rhymes,
But either way you hustle,  
You just want your watch and smile to shine.
Right now it’s like the perfect crime, 
I chop and stuff a hundred dimes. 
The neighborhood will know they’re mine, 
My baggies colored like a lime.
And speaking of a damn lime, 
I’m smoking sticky orange pine. 
It’s of the hydroponic kind, 
Cured in jars with orange rinds. 
I’m quiet like a silent mime, 
And way too blind to see the signs.
Custom nine beside my spine, 
My extra mags hold forty-nine. 

And I refuse to be the latter;  
I’ve already climbed the ladder. 
I attack, bruise, and batter, 
To make the bank deposits fatter. 
Go ahead and be a hero, man, act badder. 
Custom competition gun to lay you down flatter.  
Shell casings clatter, 
While store front windows shatter. 
Formerly Fort Myers’ Madd Hatter; 
most recent pharmacy-gatter, 
Before you hear the pitter-patter,
Apply three pounds, cause shit to splatter.  
Toss the heater down the sewer, time for me to scatter. 
Police are getting closer now; your life didn’t even matter. 
My product got slept on, because it got stepped on,
Potential buyer got crept on, chest blown, vest gone.  
It’s a sad song that’s been playing for too long.
But my time is money, and I didn’t like his damn tone.