South Round 3: 11. Axl Prose vs 2. Rygar

[trap.]

Axl Prose:



Rygar can`t be called a rapper until he grabs a mic
I`ll expose his true colors even though his pic was black and white...

Ry, you`ll get to see Adonis...after I best him as well
You EYEd the wrong AX-...so all you`ll get is an L
Any thought of Ry bein` cool, fled when I seen this fool
Congratulations though...on graduatin` Hebrew School... (Mazel Tov!)
Now to the 'matter at hand'...and I don`t mean ya cuticles...
Wore a suit in ya pic cause you knew round 3 was ya funeral
Callin` yaself "Super Ego", but your identity`s void...
Because real psychiatrists...have discredited Freud
Step or avoid, but toe to toe...you can`t beat the wit...
Cause I`ll slam the door shut if you ever get your feet in it
See I spit vocal rage...you never ever flowed on stage...
So ya te_t`s X`ed out like the pop ups on the votin` page
Like nympho`s on the phone for days...I`m speakin` nasty
Call me Axl Grease...since you ain`t squeakin` past me
I`m bein` flashy...outshinin` ya whole dialect..
You think in slow motion, I`m the strobe light effect...
Ry`ll get silverwear, and me? I`ll be flossin` the gold...
Cause he spoonfed the voters at this fork in the road
I have an audible mode so I`ll spit dead in ya ear
While you pass text out to the crowd & expect `em to cheer...
Fear the first 3 letters from my last name, PRO is my theme
Known to drop rookies like Vertical Limit`s openin` scene...
My verse is hittin` home so hard, soon you`ll be movin`
Bob Vila, meet Rygar...he`s got some 'room for improvement'
Never blessed a mic, instead ya like..."My text is nice..."
My 'stuff`s over ya head' like VC dunkin` on Frederic Weiss
Men or mice? well this HOMO looks like half of a RAT...
Couldn`t have revolutionary lines with a topographical map
Faggot you`re wack...your chest is barren in fact...
What I get off my chest...will make your clavicle crack
It shatters and snaps...you ain`t made of sternum stuff...
You wrote your shit in graffiti? well now your verse is buffed
I`ve heard enough, but never heard you flex or spit oral...
Last round you ran outta dope...so I`ll accept your withdrawal
Ya rhythm is awful, cause you don`t write with the track
Ry, here`s the kiss of death...don`t try kissin` me back...
Your script is just wack, if spit...it`ll be crap that you spoke
While hip hop "Culture" can be swabbed from the back of my throat...
How this cat gonna gloat? his idea of rappin` is print...
He ain`t half as dope as me...like Phant and his gimp
I`ll smack Ry like a hoe then advance with a swaggery limp
I bitchslapped you for Galv, now go back to YOUR PIMP...
From now on all your critical thinkin` will be done from a coma
So take 'comfort in the fact you suck', like a hummer on sofas
You`ll say you were robbed. talk is cheap & me? I`m costly
I`m a smooth criminal...I got the voters leanin` towards me...

moonwalkin' all over your non-rhymin` ass

rygar are you ok?

vote fair... but you already knew that.
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Rygar:



Welcome to the jungle.
Guns N’ Roses eh?

You and your appetite for destruction, get the afterlife introduction
This beating is ‘on the house,’ like putting the satellite where it functions
I’ll grab the knife and start thrusting, cuz I’m opposed to your style
Muthafucka’s so shook, he said I won but still voted for Galv
But you couldn’t stop me, so I’ll try to not-mention-stories
About how I stay ‘pushing whigs back’ like hot-tempered Torries
I’ll cause you to crash when you’re gripping life’s wheel
Then force you to play a game of hopscotch on a minefield
Cuz when I draw blood, your clothes-tend-to-stain
I’ll straight crush you in March, bitch, this isn’t November reign
My flow severs frames, with archetypical design of text
If life’s a bitch…you’re the euphoric interval between life and death
Too slow at climbing steps, you elevate at a herb’s pace
You didn’t want to ‘mine your business’ so I detonated your workplace
I’ll demonstrate I get first place, cuz my flow-is-that-of-text-kings
Bitch, you couldn’t ‘fire shots’ if you were the owner of the Redskins
I’ve slain all your garrisons, so I won’t delay…it’s imperative
That I ‘add your verse to my floppy’ so I can ‘save the embarrassment’
I drop informative bars, and your face is more than just odd
Difference? Your frame is a distorted façade while I’m worshipped like porcelain Gods
Cuz yo I won’t go down, like thermostats inside a sauna
Take a deep breath in the atmosphere, Axl…‘sigh in aura’ (goodbye)
I’m the firestarta, while Guns N’ Roses are all soft guys
*looks at picture…Um, are you measuring your cock size?
Should’ve lost twice already, that’s twice you’ve escaped your death
Now the gun that’ll go in your mouth, enters it with a bayonet
You’re facin death personified, and I’ll leave your head severed
Yeah you beat K, now it’s time to move on to the next letter
Of the alphabet, I’ll smash that rep of yours that lacks divinity
There’s a thin line separating my wraths vicinity and magnanimity
You added a ‘P’ to Rose…which turned-you-gay-within-hours
So I’ll approach your tombstone, and ‘urinate on the flowers’
See I’ve got no respect for you, so I keep a concealed weap
To pistol-whip faggots that can’t win with their real rep
This is the temple of doom, and yes I fight here all the time
In this tourney your ‘buzz is ending’ like when Lightyear almost died
I tell a lot of stories, like…beating you is how I got my glory
My lines? An alcoholic sick of drinking couldn’t ‘top the forty’
Enough on alcoholic beverages, and your catatonic penmanship
I bring catastrophic sentences, that are avid-on-incessant-wit,
I intend to rip this pansy ass, with quips nothing shy of ominous
Axl’s writer’s ‘block’ is so severe, it’s classified as a metropolis
I’m not a novelist, but these long verses keep reeling ‘em in
Axl can raise the roof all he wants, I’M the one ceiling the win

Use your illusion.

Rii
Rx/IO
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Final:
Axl Prose (11) - Rygar (9)