keystyle.. "knights at the round table" (open cypher)

[corleone]

Yo..

I wreck shit.. at levels you couldn't project,
Intellect.. my style raw like infectious flesh/
Born out of wetlock,
Where witches gather in salems lot,
In a moshpit of demons where hell is hot,
I'm sick.. my thoughts create hellish plots,
And perceive life to be diseased to rot/
Genocide.. my pens' ink stains papyrus,
And dates back to prophecies on Corona Virus/
Tyrant, I hold keys to gates that behold bones and silence/-
And lay my victims down to a throne of violence/
I smoke weed, and toke till' my throat is burning,-
And that's what the fuck I call a higher learning/
I seek death and creep where Gods are purged/
And drink cups of blood, poured unto cisterns/
True blood.. a warrior, pleased to fight/
I'll punch your face in till' your teeth unite/
Who dreams to sight? At whom.. stands before you?/
I treat whores to riches, who stand loyal/(parable)
No respect for no man following one,
And serves after his liking, before his tongue/
Who wouldn't dare to reign.. ? Yet alone speak on it,
'Wouldn't want to be King and shit,
Leading, like he was made to be.. ?
An act of resilience, mistaken for bravery,
transitions' into slavery,
diminishing what was made to be..
A follower prostitutes his knowledge of self/
Where he fails to commit.. he trails somebody else/
I'm god like.. a warlord, destined to reign,
I use my sword for my weapon,-
And eat at the inflicted and slain/
On fields.. where corpses pile up, and stinches remain/
I kill.. and burn it all up, to vigorous flames..


(continue to rhyme after my last bar)