BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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64 bars of revenge part 2
- You lot are not gonna topple this warrior
- I’ll send your awful waffling to dystopia
- You wobble and worry, sorry to vomit dirt
- Who wants to be demolished first?
- Jot a curse and my stock of words will rock the verse
- Log off nerds and inch back, stop your work
- Between the Rap God and worms there’s a big gap
- Believe you can hand off me with a bitch slap?
- Then I’ll hit back, devour you in quick sand
- And slip your lyrics in trash, big man
- I’m coasting home against this midget’s chit chat
- You all better know it, ‘cause your shit rap IS wack
- I severe the pens of competitors who think that
- They can meddle with the head of this match
- My acapella pencil has me scrapping instrumentals
- I’m the devil that’s been damning all you dead fools.
- Do I have to mention you’re the wackest member
- So I’m back to sentence this hapless peasant
- Rapping feckless, your bars are reckless
- Don’t start messing, I’ll put you behind bars felon
- Accept your crimes arsehole life’s hard, you’ll give me a nice spar
- But remember I’m the rhyme star
- My essence is everywhere when I write bars
- And I’m ending emcee enemies that Die Hard
- I get under my nemesis and fuck him up
- He suffered my terror, I blew up his stuff
- I’m like the Russian government, luckless thugs
- Get a rough pummelling and stuck in a coffin
- So it’s blood that you’re coughing
- Hence, you better hush all your mocking, you’re looking foolish, stop it
- I tick those boxes, you’ve lost this
- And kick you to the ground, you won’t get a shock win
- You’re not nicking my crown, you’re a big one to boast
- But you’re hitting up foes, wishing they give you a vote
- Thinking you’re so dope you’ll pillage my throne
- They’re admitting it though “you’re not sickest on show”
- You reply “kidding?” and moan, slip into groans
- Then you’re hyping about bitches and hoes
- Not reminding me that you’re a gigolo
- Not even fit to kiss the toes of the king of flows
- Don’t stand and act like you didn’t know
- I don’t even need to tell all the sickest jokes
- ‘Cause you’re slow to fix something and throw a hit
- When you spoke your dribble you didn’t poke a thing
- Here’s the code for spitting, I owe you this
- So start kicking multis, maximal visible syllables
- Triple it up so you’re not making lyricals despicable
- And don’t spray your typical shit. Pitiful.
- I piss on fools as their churning out lyrics
- Burning your shit quick, it’s not worth the business
- You couldn’t earn a pittance, my verbals will win this
- ‘cause each verse I word and sermon I finish
- Is certain to be the work of a genius, and see’s the
- Creatures that beef and seem to wanna be eaten
- Honestly, you wannabes don’t rap with seamless
- Precision, each piece I’ve written weaves the
- Needle and glistens with the will of my finger
- That builds on the syllables, I’m filling the minutes
- Drilling the kids in how to kill it at spitting
- With each innings spilling my opinion
- As I mind’s thinking, there are no eyes blinking
- Wait… sorry I don’t fight women
- You’re a wife cooking, better off in a nice kitchen
- You’re prides in this, I’m not kidding.
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