59 lines

My bars go over your head like a moonlit cruise ship

U spew loose “mystical, subliminal rituals”

but it’s fictional, minimal, pitiful intervals,

light as whispers through Biblical visuals U never spit cynical

so, choose to wanna knuckle up and I’ll rupture guts

turn your “third eye open” to a literal injury

critical, vision split in residuals, I don’t care if the lines U made are blades

if U R a hybrid breed that thrives where slime recedes and climbs with speed

through violent reeds reciting quotes that pierce through silent seas

cause I leave those tyrants weak, I’ll come with lyrics that flip

your dopest scripts, every single time — leave both your shoulders ripped

broken wrists and molten lips U couldn’t hold a wisp of the quotes

I spit, if I wrote this diss in blow that drips off golden bricks in Oprah’s crib

 

Your flows slow — like old folks rowing

toward a boat with holes poked, soul broke, no growth,

wishing you’d switched your tone

b4 the whole thing rolled and choked it’ll take way more than 4 + 6 years

to get within orbit of this tier I’m a titan beast slicing dreams

till your psyche bleeds leave you shattered glass scattered past

your battered path once the wrath is unleashed, if I hop on your song

I'll decode your raps like a rogue with codes to crack, explode your tracks

with folded maps of stolen stats and molten facts

my words spin in a whirlwind verbal on-site each bar burst from the curb

at the right height, scope on the pad and I swerve with a bright light

tagging names in my verse like turf on a freshly white sign

 

Every line sprayed is designed with a snipers pride

each stroke smoke throats like a pipe-bomb timed in flight night

my minds like high-crime — divine in a timed fight

grip on the stick like a bike ride and you’ll get chalked

where you stand off a tight line whenever I slide by

whenever I write rhymes they hit like a nines strike dash with a track-meet pace

when the wrath peaks pop out the box with a Glock-grin jack-in-the-box tease

panic released when you’re tasked to speak, fabric collapses, static scrapes

you’ll watch each pattern draft and break

I’m graphic like peeps scrubbing blood stains off a taxi dudes backseat

yours to be exact ‘cause you acted strapped but lacked heat

 

Your crew ran up like an athlete at a track meet

and I left the scene nasty —

so gruesome the news at 2 + 3

refused to screen the massacre.

 

Therefore, there’s frozen judgment:

for your info — your dome is mostly bluffin’,

opposite of rogue encodin’ loaded doctrines,

close to omens,

bars laced like missions cloaked

in sacrificial Roman scrollin’.

 

Your flows corrupted — tones erupted,

souls disrupted — cold enough to

shut your function, crush your structure,

fold your substance,

end your lungs in

frozen tundra thunder.