[v1]
Found my skills at the crossroads, battled the Devil for 'em
Metal pouring over my lips like the Lamb of God metaphor, screeching errands past blank States and metal pitchforks for the last of 'em
It doesn't matter, Latter-Day Saint disposed on the sidelines, whiskey in hand, best friends with the cigarette machine (he wasn't spending cash, he was lending it money - ain't that funny?) (yeah, but what's it mean?)
Ain't it funny the way the friends ditch out the backdoor like it's closing time with a six pack waiting back in the lap of the actor who was smoking your dimes?
You see, they say that's where the friendship ends and lesson begins, but I'm an impressionist kid with different personas so I don't have to exist.
I am Johnny Cash reincarnate (well, I'm wishing it)
I'm the broken Father, phony Ghost and the son that never wanted it
I'm Lightnin' Hopkins lightin' box springs with a stolen candlestick
I'm the Sandman with mattress hands and more than what we're imagining
If you take a moment to notice an old soul watching spiritual Matlock, you'll begin to see why I just don't give a fuck about your lyrical rap-rock

[hook]
And we find ourselves at a crossroads
Meet me out back, we'll shoot him at dawn, he's not hearing the song
And we find ourselves at a crossroads
I didn't bother to bring my fiddle

[v2]
This one's for my Chicago kids, future royalty
Just wait, that throne will be yours, so stay patiently loitering
I've known cats that rap hard but smoke and contemplate mortality
When they should be opening up, like "fuck a stereotype" and callusing
If you really think that rap's dead then call yourself a casualty
Put the gun to your temple and pray (why you think it's called that anyway?)
Shit, I'm just trying to rap the pain away like every rapper in my zip code any day
Should I just fade away or stay straight faced like a fake holiday?
Say all I may if I mean all the shit that I say, living on faith
I'm just trying to create before I decay
But I feel like I'm walking a fine line between excess and not enough
Best friends and a lotta stuff
Dead ends but I'm marchin' up
But I eat beats like a buttercup and bust a margarine nut, so I'm just not giving a fuck
about where I end up, I'm making this shit for the buzz
While you're bumping Atlanta, I'm writing this shit on the bus
While you're Hannah Montana, my table needs to be bussed

[hook]
And we find ourselves at a crossroads
Meet me out back, we'll shoot him at dawn, he's not hearing the song
And we find ourselves at a crossroads
I didn't bother to bring my fiddle