...This reminds me of the days of dwelling with those,
Who killed off the weak for fancy clothes and ho's,
Not opposed to the picket fence dream,
But both lie on the same side of the gate,
It seems that it's all coming back to me now,
Yeah, umm, uhh, I figured it was about two summers ago,
No joking, no I-lie-to-win,
It was uh Crackpot, yeah, Crackpot Jenkins,
I first met Crackpot in Head Starts,
Since then I knew he wasn't too head smart,
As I scribbled in art he insisted on standing in the sandbox,
To collect unknown amounts of pebbles and stones to throw rocks,
"It's in the wrists", he said when telling me in early physics lessons,
"Two atoms can't occupy the same space at the same time",
Acknowledged by the playground's bully Wesson,
Who felt Pot's rock then cracked Pot's face,
Considering his aim, I warned he could hurt others with his game,
Miss Creissman warned the same,
Although, he didn't care, did he?
Cos in a decade and one year,
He continued to throw rocks for a career,
Paid and more paid as he pelt rocks felt by,
Every brother in brown with whom he dealt,
One more rock thrown - ah shoot!,
Under the ground was a boy in a blue suit,
Still a lot of rock throwing going on up the block,
But a pocket full of pebbles what locked up Crackpot,
Should've used his wrists for the cut like Subroc,
Maybe then he'd have avoided the common phony jackpot,
Yeah, phony jackpot,
