CHALLENGER'S RAP

• B4 you ever drop a statement half as raw as my compilations
• The Loch would rise & stop it’s patience, tell Poseidon
• “God's awakened” just to witness me demolish pagans by body-pressin’
• the Son of Satan thru a comet made from solid hatred
• just for watchin’ my bar engagement I'll ransack your posture
• collapse your chakra, wrap your top in plastic pasta then over and over
• stab U with a jagged mantra spoken backwards
• blackened opera chantin’ “slaughter”
• thru cracked katabas while my shadows
• laughin’ off your trauma
• U ain't matchin' The Great Nate my wrath is fate
• I castrate tracks & lacerate whole accolades
• with battle stakes until your fans evacuate and plant grenades in tantrum
• frames & detonate ur phantom name
• until it vanishes like facts explained in anti-vaxxer
• chat debates I’m colder than a polar bear with no more hair
• my soul flares — auras glow
• like solar glares, fold your stare
• don’t go there, I throw snares
flow’ll tear holes in domes
• where hope flares
• it’s known warfare bodies froze
• in cold air U froze scared
• I bolt bolts from gold chairs I roll there like I’m doin’ home repairs, toolbox gripped with the chrome prepared
• ring your doorbell
• masked with a soldiers glare,
• And as soon as he steps down them open stairs —
• He’ll get aired, head blown, no one cares,
• Vocals flare, echo long in the open air.
• Every quote a prayer, but coded rare —
• An omen shared through potent stares of a ghost declared.
• I broke despair in opponents paired with a soul to spare,
• Now I float through their open lairs with a scope that glares
• From drones I air, like warfare with a throne to wear.
• You just a poser there — I fold ya square
• In a ritual scripted by hieroglyphic cobra prayers.
• Your bones’ll tear — twisted by zones where I roam impaired,
• Alone but aware, with a tone that’ll clone despair.
• My pen’s a throne of flair, a solar flare in molten lairs,
• Explodin’ through coded layers that overload your vocal prayers.
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• I’m colder than a polar bear with no more hair in solar flares,
My soul declares omens flared inside a holy lair, beware.
Real Sikh, you preach fast, but your words fold in prayer,
I roast your hope with snare traps prepped like chrome warfare.
• Dizaster, chaos king? I torch your skin, my vocals spin
In orbits of destruction — your freestyle’s wearing thin.
Your punches stomp weak jaws, mine break gods with the grim,
I carve commandments on your flesh — this battle’s looking grim.
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• Real Sikh, you think your speed’s a weapon? I’m a cyclone,
Ripping realms apart with rhymes cold as Odin’s throne.
You mumble scriptures, I explode ‘em, shatter your zones,
My flow’s a solar storm, while you freeze like broken phones.
• Dizaster, hear this — your antics won’t save your fate,
I’m the shadow past disaster masked in blackened hate.
Your wild energy’s raw, but mine’s a precise blade,
I’ll slice your tactics open — leave your style decayed.
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• Now, listen close — I flip your angles back like karma: —
• Real Sikh, all that talk about faith? But can you back it?
Your verses barely scratch the surface — I’m the prophet’s racket.
You spit fast but lack the wrath — my wrath? Cataclysmic,
Your flow’s a filtered hoax — my bars are pure volcanic.
• Dizaster, I’ve seen your battles — a circus of theatrics,
But under all the hype, your substance feels static.
Try to clown my metaphors? I summon scriptures automatic,
I’ll leave your fans evacuating, faith gone erratic.
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• Performance moment:
• “Step to me, I snap the cross — your sect collapses passive,
• My punches punch light-years — you just chase after ashes.
• I’m The Great Nate, your worst nightmare with a pen,
• The cold storm rising while you just pretend.”
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• Final burn:
• “You want war? I’ll carve your cipher spines with tiger claws,
• Define divine by firing lines through iron jaws.
• The sky pauses — lightning cracks as my mind absorbs —
• A thousand rhymes at once, and recites them like lion roars.”