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Cam’ron – Crime Pays¹



Would all those designated kindly stand at attention? Thank you much.
Let us get down to business then, fellows.
The reputation I’ve garnered for throwing around doubloons precedes me. Also, I’ve installed a virgin set of wheels on my Stutz Bearcat.
Keep in the front of your mind, George Moore, I turn quickly on my radius and release — no doubt owing to my infantry training at the hands of Brig. Gen. Pellham-Wick. And it is not in my interest to come down to the level of the vicar’s son, and mislead his peers with youthful jokes and insouciance about my good for-tune.
The man in charge is now free; acquire an ounce of cocaine.
Using simple chemistry, transform said ounce of cocaine into so-called “crack,” worth twice the original value of the aforementioned cocaine. Linger on the front mount of any designated building, and sell your product. My purpose, Stupid, is to inform you that I have learned through personal experience that such criminal activity does indeed provide income and other less tangible, but nonetheless real, benefits.
I am pleased I incur your augur, fellow, but I submit: Pleasure yourself elsewhere.
Did you know that I posed for graduation photos wearing the traditional garb of mortarboard and robe, despite not having received my diploma? Oh, it was truly a sight to behold, I with all the flashy qualities of an original gangster, sitting in the conveyance. Hear me, as it only took three years to be done with my secondary education!
There are near-innumerable methods I use for “getting by.”
For instance, the nine-gauged shotgun.
Then, of course, there is the ever-popular AK-47, of Russian build. You know what, Buster, just get on out of here.
Crime pays.
I own a record pressing plant, and a covers concern. I sign acts and Jug Bands and then release their platters. That’s one thing, not to mention my own brand of spirits and a trouser, short-pant, and shirt concern to boot.
And thanks to the dizzying qualities of my cannabis sativa, the blinding lily-whiteness of my snuff, and my nearly pure heroin, I’ve funded my ends of the week to become the stuff of legend.
Fellows! Here it is…
When I was cutting my teeth as a wee lad, in my last year of required schooling by the state of Kentucky, Male Schoolmarm Massey put forth a question to our class on the insistent subject of our future aspirations.
Joffrey said he wanted to work as a beach patrolman, like one of those gentleman who sit alert atop those very tall chairs by the water. Roubert revealed his intentions of joining the fire brigade in tradition of Benjamin Franklin. Note that the beached bilge rat aspired to own a Porsche automobile (they who designed tanks for the Luftwaffe), while our friend Roubert aspired to alight from a Spyder Convertible.
I remember this one lad, David, declared his hopes to become an officer of the law, and a girl, Wanda, said she wished to give herself to the dance. The two wastrels had none-too-secret plans to marry and move into a French estate of no small stature.
Here I became belligerent.
“Halt!” said I. “This sir, is no math lesson, there are no abacuses out, and yet here we are all, discussing incomprehensible equations.”
Master Massey looked upon me, asking, “Doth thou protest, Young Giles?”
“Indeed! I should be teaching this class!”
I remained undeterred, and vouchsafed I’d be better suited to design a curriculum more relevant to our times.
Us here all, we’ve no need for apprentice-ships nor baccalaureates in algebra and Euclidean chicanery. Fiduciary concerns are a practical matter: Your red and black ink, your monthly allotments. It is an abacus thy need, and not a leather scroll.
My impassioned call for schoolhouse reform drew ridicule from some of my more studious fellow pupils.
I was quick to answer, pointing out the miscorrelation between the salary range for a lifeguard and the cost of owning and maintaining a Porsche.
But for some reason, they just didn’t appreciate the sobering rebuttal delivered by your humble narrator…
Damn it all.
[chuckles] My, I am wealthy! I go into fits when I think about all the drug money I’ve donated to a variety of charitable foundations.
Crime pays.


  1. Earlier, we heard a shriek in the study. Wally, supposedly reviewing Cam'ron's latest, was in there drinking wine. ("An '82 Montepulciano, you nincompoop.") He began cursing…that he had ruined the CD and a copy of the King James Bible as well. Half a roll of Bounty and seventy or so minutes later, he sent us his "review." For reference, please find Cam'ron's original words to Crime Pays' title track here.