DEFENDER'S RAP

• Take a seat, brace for heat I break beliefs and shape elites,
• Engage the beat with blades that eat through fake MCs and plagiarized sheets.
• Basically, your bravery’s a staged disease, a make believe,
• I’m the page that breathes what fate conceives decay in peace.
• You ain’t Big Pun, you just weigh the same,
• And you got Biggie’s frame, not Biggie’s flame.
• It ain’t bunny ears when I put this piece behind ya head,
• It’s a funeral vibe closed casket, priest lyin’ stressed.
• I don’t shoot shots I detonate nerve gas in confessions,
• Leave your whole squad stiff, like a taxidermy session.
• I’m the "97 Em" in denim sicker than them,
• I fuse scripts with brutal intentions move with precision.
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• B4 you breach my weakest rhyme, you'd 1st need a church endorsement,
• From priests who convert discordant demons through dirt and torment.
• My Latin cadence is shattering Vatican panes,
• Scribed by the shadows of Nephilim shackled in chains.
• I’m mapping the math of the plagues in the strands of your veins,
• A phantom assassin whose stanza re-factors the brain.
• Every bars a guillotine swings clean with militant symmetry,
• Spillin’ your ministry's infantry with infinite villainy.
• I hold your soul in folded palms, then blow it through Jehovah’s lungs,
• My code is long forgotten, etched in deathless epic echoes.
• It’s Ragnarok logic I’m dragging the gods through the glass,
• Shattering patterns of matter to atomize mass.
• I’m a tidal surge of math. I turn their "third eye open" into a literal injury critical.
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• The Guelph storm encoded in omens no popes mentioned,
• Bars so cold they corrode your hopes engine.
• Don’t provoke a scope from the code of a rogue ascension,
• My flows a loaded weapon that folds your whole dimension.
• Every quote’s a ghost with a throat that spoke vengeance,
• Wrote with a dose of dope that broke the souls tension.
• I’ll stab you with a jagged mantra spoken backwards,
• Blackened opera chantin' "slaughter" thru cracked katabas.
• I’m Herculean, mercurial, murking the burial plots,
• Turning your theories to queries and blurring the dots.
• I plant grenades in tantrum frames and detonate your phantom name,
• Until it vanishes like facts explained in anti-vaxer chat debates.
• Step to me? That's suicide I'm the rope and the rafter,
• The note on your dresser, the ghost in your laughter.
• I don’t battle, I bury this ain’t flow, it’s disaster,
• Every bars a closed chapter ain’t no “after.”