What’s a dandy lion to a dandelion? I pay you no respect.
You’re a complete lollygag, that means a wooden joke in text.
This a goal I’m getting strolling effortlessly toward an open net the goalies left.
Your punchlines are full time faggot. This ain’t gonna go to pens.
I’m overheads like a rainbow kick; you won’t impress with that Age old shit.
If I raise both fists, it ain’t to issue your eviction order.. but you better take notice before I break noses.
Save those biblical babbling’s, your favourite author is a lie,
The truth is Age, you relate cause both your stories are contrived.
All you do is cry about hate votes - morning, noon and night
I’m sure that you could find a way to turn even water into whine.
I’ve been the thorn that’s in your side since I arose,
A giant slowly rising, growing silently pasture pile below.
Manure wack. Fans of Rap-Royalty pray that after defeat
he’s ran to Netcees, and ‘leaves in private’ like Adam and Eve.
The nerve of this parableplegic is gettin’ embarrassin’; you’ve never been adequate
in any stage of writing, I’m Age-defying like Jennifer Anniston.
Your heads on my sack religiously, so anything after this
false as the manicured nails MCD buried your casket with.
You’re not a menace you sack of shit. Been a faggot past and present.
Now you’re a shadow of your former self. You’re a phantom Menace.
A sith you could beat me! I Yoda kid a neckline fracture
Dagobah for bar with me, you’ll need a Jedi Master
and have an Empire back ya, or I’m Tatooine your face
for calling me out short of a thousand like Methuselah’s age.
You’re two and the same since Enoch sonned you. I’m on a fact stating mission.
Let’s not bash faithful Christian’s, the kid a fool.. a bigger tool than man-made religion.
It’s last place you finished in the human race; threw away the lead you took
You were straining keeping up. I grew in pace, now eat my dust, til you can make a decent run.
I’m through with training. Seasons done. Been and won while you were exercising your demons,
If bible believers getting cross, I’ll crucify him with Jesus.
Why are you even here? You re-appeared tryna make us believe
but take it from me, heavyweight boxing’s the only AJ-Fury were waiting to see.
You’ll get knocked straight off your feet for trying me here, dawg
Ain’t nothing real about you. Everything you write is Amir Khan.
A mere con, get it? ‘Cause you a prisoner in your own mind
for thinking the SkySports your imaginary friend. This is Showtime.
The Klitschko Bros prime against a soup can - I’ll end it too fast
No contest. Aspartame’s far too sweet. I’d never do that.
The left’s a loose cannon. You should have tried ducking these
before you lose your belt. Suture self once your eyes cut and bleeds.
You lost already. I was offered entry to Fight Club for free
but I preferred tasting Earl Grey, it’s more my cup of tea.
I wanted five hundred EACH! You were a pussy from the start
wouldn’t agree to my shit, and pleaded a fifth like the ‘Murrican you are.
I could double this in half the time with a quarter of the effort
‘cause your skill set’s so ‘minute’, I could slaughter you in seconds
and without ordering the letters into those caps that you have
to emphasise a point. I capitalise on the fact that you’re wack.
You’re battling manic schizophrenia. You’re mentally insane.
This a baptism of fire for you to dance with the devil in diss May.
Hell is what awaits for you, in the end there’s no escape,
even when you’re feeling brave again and ready to regain
any semblance of your senses; you’ll remember me ‘cause Age
I’ll be there to lead the way...
treading on your cranium, just to make sure the depression weighs heavy on your brain.
You’re everything I hate in text; I’m proof of good not winning evil.
Already beat you once. I’ll Ice Age Too if he Pixar sequel.
We’re different people, me, you and your split personalities
and not one whimsical fantasy has it in them challenge me.
Quit with the faggot-tree, your shear snippets show why we have to weed you out.
Oaks take form from acorns. You’re planting seeds of doubt.
Always leaves around June, the board flourishes for the rest of summer.
Well I’m a self-raising flower - I was made for the pressure cooker.
There’s an oven in Hell’s Kitchen, I trust you’re a fast learner
‘cause womanly well-wishers get put on the backburner.
You’re the funniest Frankfurter. Silly sausage, empty your bread.
I’m hot, dog. You mustard misunderstood now you’re tryin’ da ketchup instead.
Everyone’s says I’m on a roll. You’re straight buns, quit copying me.
I promise you people judge a Shepherd by the flock of his sheep.
You don’t wanna get fleeced. I had paid shows every god other week.
Guess you’re proof of just how far my livestock has decreased.
Old McDonald would seethe if he could see me now. Fuck what he thinks.
What goods the opinion of some fictional old man that doesn’t exist?
You’re dumb as the scripture writing. The script you’re writing has to go
and your votes are the same thing back and forth like a palindrome.
You have a soap opera style full of re-runs and repeats
with nothing of real value to offer, but ya show up every week.
Once you were decent, and some hope he’ll return to the former glory
they saw before he was churning our nothing but boring stories.
Plot twist. I’d be turning in my grave if I were a Hall Of Famer
you’re the worst to have disgraced the site. These words the call of nature -
I’m sure ya pissed. You’ll call it quits before I call it a night.
I can tell he phony without telephony. He scared to put it all on the line.
This moron can’t buy iPhone’s cause Apple’s are forbidden fruit.
I’ll ring your stupid neck faggot, you couldn’t stick it to me with Gorilla Glue.
I’m in my groove like laminate flooring. I don’t have to cut corners,
you’ve been handed the short end of the stick in this magic performance.
I wand to spell the end of this trick like “Abracadabra!”
while spreading wildfire, since he’s a natural disaster
inferno mercy. Tsunamis will storm your defences.
Lemme at ‘em, I’m Eric Harris if you want war in the trenches.
Call him a medic. I won’t even Columbine name
I’d put ‘He’s A Bitch’ on his obituary, then his loss column by name.
Bye nameless faggot. I Excel while a higher PowerPoint to your words.
Choirboy shouldn’t cursor OneNote out of him tryna voice his concern
I’ll Office head. Change your entire Outlook like Windows 10.
I’m a Mac daddy. You’re Microsoft, must be wired different then.
This bitch should get with the program. There’s no damn doubting
He’d sell a butt if he weren’t celibate. He enjoys when a prolapse round him.
Butt how can I claim that you’re gay when you’ve done no ass pounding
and you’re the type to walk up Brokeback Mountain...
just to hold hands down it?
Straight up.
@
Universe