CHALLENGER'S RAP

• acting like this ain’t a battling anthem that’s slappin your mandible back again
• like I ran through a vatican chapel and shattered the glass in the back with a bag in my hand from a lab
• that examined your tracks and collapsed reading half of em, panickin, babblin,
• backin and graspin at phantom advantages, mad at the traction I have from the stamina gathered
• like Cassius when Ali was clashing with challengers, askin for back to back matches to flatten them amateurs
• lappin them, practically draggin them backwards and slammin their backpacks to gravel while laughin
• their management’s panicking, trappin them back in the van like a ransom for fans they imagined but haven’t established
• i’ve handled the damages, bandaged the abdomen after I ran through your bullshit and shattered your average mechanics
• you’re lackin mechanics to stand with the rappers that actually master the facts of the battle
• mannequins, wax in comparison, back with a hand in the cabinet grabbin’ the matches
• and stackin them under your mattress, a candid reaction, crashin’ the back of your Avalon
• draggin your dash through the gravel then asking you flat out like what was that track even standin’ on
• i’m tappin in faster than Hatton when jabbin, i snap like a bad elastic band in an ambulance
• survived five firewalls at a time while I side chained nine tracks to a drive, like B-roll for a sci fi crime
• write with the mileage of a triathlete high off Nike flyknits, the wi-fi died and I still supplied a live mix
• tighter than a vice grip, been wired to defy time, declined invites to reply
• survived in high tide, mic’d up like live news crews in a tri state ice dive, ice pick lines tight as tie dye
• on a hypebeast site signed private, been five deep in a cipher with a sideline hype team
• slide right past writers who try to vibe out and get wiped like whiteboards, fired a line so spiked it sliced the highlights
• mad with the traction i’ve had, balanced on cans of the flattest damn Canada Dry with a cracked can
• attached to the back with a band of Saran wrap and damaged elastic, it’s magic i haven’t collapsed
• asking me back for a challenge they’ll catch in a casket, phantom input mapped to a damaged pad
• and it’s slappin like when you land on your back on a mat in a gym with no traction, and half of
• your abdomen’s gaspin for bandages, you’re actin like i didn’t master this, like i’m not the reason your shit gettin passed on
• by fans with a grasp on the averages, you got traction, imagine it, i got a catalog standin
• like statues attached with a clamp to a slab of the granite you stand on, just to collapse it
• been upper deck shuffle mode, nothin but subtle adjustments to structure that buckle these underdeveloped rebuttals
• like your shit is functionally ugly, i juggle this budget like Busta, i’m bustin the drum with percussion
• that crumbles your dumbass assumptions and leaves em in puddles, strutting through functions
• with hundreds of something you’d struggle to summon, subtle production, tucked up the hutches
• in cubicles, with punches from underlings mumblin, hover above it like drones, rush in with thunder