[FLOOR LINED]

My rhyming skills are basic, and my word play is lost.
Scattered within two souls, the battle has been tossed.
Easily, you could have beat me down, but some how I pull off a game 7.
Driven by beats, neatly organized snares and purple bass is your rhythm.
With a last second 3 point shot for the win, my shot is wide open and botched.
"In and Out," exclaims the television broadcaster, as I fall to the floor.
The pain never ends, as I endure watching the celebration of your team.
I promptly shake all of your hands.
I couldn't withstand the top-notched word play that was served to me on a platter.
The next words I say are splattered onto microwave TV dinners, in the nights to come.
Your team came together as one, as mine fell apart.

A part of me still wishes and dreams, in my old age… as the years follow my disaster of failure.
You were spot on, and my game got distracted by your greatness.
Emptiness fills clots in my heart, I can barely stand on my own two feet.
Damn, breh... your rhymes were "real neat".
"Next year," I tell myself -- but I have lost the belief.
The faith that I had in myself was misplaced, as I continue to blame my team mates.
Fucking, Kevin Love was to blame… or perhaps Tyronn Lue.
I could step over them all, like I was Alan Iverson...
but relative to you, I was no comparison.
I blamed the lots and tons of you fuckers, while neglecting to look in the mirror.
I steer clear of those fuckin reflections.
They speak nothing.
"Fuck That," says everybody I share my feelings with.
I am nothing.

Kevin Love is traded for nothing and Tyronn Lue is fired.
I'm tired of not winning rap battles because of my team mates' faults.
Nobody can guard me. I am unstoppable…
but an unstoppable force has met an immovable object.
If I was guarding you, you would have never hit those shots.
I could pick out spots in your game and exploit every word you mistakenly have said.
I keep telling myself, 'NEXT YEAR YOU ARE DEAD."

You are dead to me and so is the entire league of emcees.
Suckas try-na play me and my lyrical genius and portray me as a whack ass loop hole.
I'ma fuckin trade Kyrie Irvin for Chris Paul and cash for JJ Redick.
Stick that 3 word sentence in your ass till it hits your throat, and you hiccup.
Stick yo words down yo own fuckin head cap and through your armor.

The LA Clippers scoop up Kevin Love and Damian Lillard for Blake Griffon and some change.
Then they beat you, and then win their first championship.
The world stops and comes to and end as the prepared track is turned off by the sound man…
and the bar closes. The venue goes out of business.
Are my Cavaliers cursed to never win?
Should I sell out again? Naw… its time to flip this script.
Fuckit… I'll take a pay cut and get better help to fit with my skills.
The next time you see me, you'll be shouting, "ill as fuck!"
You be sayin 'dayyyamn, Blood," and you is a Crip.
We'll be family again some day, but this time I gotta take grip of your reality.
Your frailty leads to weakness, and those are the words I pick.

"Merci," I tell you, as I steal the next championship.
Your organization is still the same, while mine has expanded.
You vote for yourself, but its not enough.
As you are trampled, you feel as though you've expired.
You keep telling yourself that "Your Too Tired".
You're Fired. Tough luck, I guess that it is… thats all.
Cut from the squad, you recall your legacy.
The words you left remain in the game, as new players study your moves.
While you're now playing in China, I'm now try'na keep up with my team's game.
Flame me all you want, you media fuckers.
I'ma drop in on yo' eye, like PJ Tucker.

Overly compressed -- Your track sounds like shit.
What was truly some skill was followed by lack of vision.
See, your basketball IQ is just not up to par…
to sustain your career and keep going far.
My shit still sounds squeaky clean, followed by feedback loops of the crowd roaring.
I apologize to tell you, but your shit was just boring.
The bass frequencies from my vocals crush you to your knees.
You climbed Mount Everest only to lose your breath.
Oxygen is a priority, when exercising the tongue's ability to form sentences so eloquently.
You retire as a professional writer, and start smoking crystal meth.
Fed up, your wife leaves you.
You have nothing to live for, but I still love you.
Exhausted, you dropped your last dime, and you plummet to your death.

Fuckin A, you were the Stephen Curry of netcees…
and now your audience keeps shouting "shut up, please!"
I swear you did great, and you can do it again.
Join me in a battle… and you tell me when.
Work on your rhymes once more, and your dimes will be fluent to spent.
Once you repent, again you will be immovable.
Still unstoppable, I meet up with you in an open mic battle.
The DJ tries to fuck you up, but you immediately conquer any beat thrown your way.
You blow my as away with your raps…
and that day is today.
I told you, "you weren't spent," and your dimes turn into dollars.
Now a billionaire, you fund major politicians…
we all soon fall to a kneeling stance and bow to your royalty.
"What have I done, I created a monster," I think to myself.
And, I look forward to next year… but by then it'll be too late.
My wife and your ex is in your bathroom stall, where you proceed to have a date.

Fuckit, I'll just kill you now. Why waste all of our time.
You won't get no dollars consisting of my dimes.
I have foreseen the future, and now I am filled with hatred for you and your lyrics.
All of you netcees -- you are all assholes and dicks.
I'll think of a word or sentence, and you tell me what rhymes with it.
Frustrated with the results, all you can say is "fuck it."