The apple of crime once dangled low to see, Waltloo DLTC, the grind was my stage, Since twenty eighteen, its roots grew deep in me, A street-born hustle, survival’s written page. Each corner a tale where whispers used to climb, Fast paper came, but trust was thin as air, Brothers still reaching for that apple of crime, Yet shadows faded, leaving silence there. The fruit lost bite, but still the lights would glow, Minimal trouble, the days grew calm and sleek, Clean profit rising where the dark used to flow, A softer grind, yet strength in every week. From bitter to mellow, the change stays defined, That apple still hangs as a mark on my mind.