Stuck in the Middle

[Pharaohs Army]

Could write something but if I do it, it's boring.
It's stupid, I should be snoring at two in the morning.
Just dropped my drink on the wood-paneled flooring.
I'm soaring. Maybe it's the mania;
It makes me crazier and zanier.
Maybe I'm just sick of rhymes about daggers and rapiers.
Or sickles. Or all the syllable spittle of nonsensical idiotic drivel.
Feels like I'm stuck in the middle.
I'll give it to you straight; no fuckin' riddles.
I tried to be civil, but all I see is trash.
Wack.
Except of course Black!
Because he takes more than 4 seconds flat, to depress the reader.
Write a rhyme right under this...address your leader.
And turn up the bass, to test your speakers.
Your freestyles couldn't be any weaker.
Plus your wack writtens are a wretched wreck. Worthless works. They lack wisdom; they're not witty.
No pity. Haven't felt like this since I left the city.
After all my in sults you still seem giddy.
With references to Diddy. And Fifty.
I'm nifty with the pen, and my gift has just began.
I'm that little nugget of gold, when you're done sifting through the pan.
I lay waste with a verbal AK. That's why you bitches ran...
...I recognize you realize I'm a raw rebel ravaging, writing and reciting for recreation, reaction, and relevance.
Plus I do it just for the hell of it. And the way things are constructed, you can tell-I-spit.
But I'm keenly aware; that's neither here nor there. The cupboard's bare.
(That's fair.)