I’m sorry, man.
You’re a lamb being led slow to the slaughter….
My verses are blitzkriegs. Your Mom holds your hand so you’ll dip your toe in the water.
This is a waste of my time; when I’m done taming this rabble….
You’ll ‘scream for first aid’ while I yell at my top assistant for arranging this battle.
You don’t have the wit to beat my perfect poems…
One punch and the crowd will hear more sirens than Odysseus on his journey home.
After your fam watches you wail ’n’ cry;
You’ll be on ‘life support’ forever… and they’ll need counseling until the day they die.
Even your pet fox can’t see me when I smash his monocle;
My wit is otherworldly…. The odds against you advancing are just astronomical.
Think this scrum’s an even war?
You took ‘worse acid’ than the blood of a Xenomorph… with the hick that had me fuckin’ seeded fourth.
Any voter doubting I’ll pound you is foolish;
You shouldn’t have ‘gone public’ with your verse… There’s no accounting for stupid.
You wont make money off battling. So, make like your balding routine,
And go back where you belong and focus on getting that topical C.R.E.A.M.
You don’t belong here.
|