This rap ain’t got composure like a whack-ass thesis
Your boyfriend’s on ma caque like a monkey rhesus
I’m processed in the thigh bags like urine and feces*
You know the label’s fucked that they had to release this
that’s all i had. sorry.
–
*only works if you pronounce “urine and feces” like Max von Sydow in Dune (1984).
This shit is sick, like lipstick on my
Dick VanDyke on big-assed trike
Fly yer rhymes back to Timbuktu
Mali’s on molly and your mama is too
You think you’re Slick Rick but you ain’t even Macklemore
I don’t even know what the hell you are rhyming for
Step in my blog like the pits of Malebolgia
Flavor crystal your coffee just like the brand Folgia
There will be no reprieve from your shit’s immolation
Schooling your raps is my favorite vocation
Please, any readers who so dare, come into tha Cipher
I ain’t even scared of a lyrical sniper
The blog you are stealing is protected by Viper
I was gonna try to rap, but then I got high
Don’t know what I’m doing, so I got high
Can’t remember crap, and I know why
‘Cause I’m high
‘Cause I’m high
‘Cause I’m high
you make the people say “aww poor baby boo”
giving up before you got halfway through
did u really get high or just quote afroman?
can’t feel mad about a possum in the lyrical garbage can
Put on the brakes and take yer foot off the GAS, bitch
Cuz your flow’s like shit coming out a turtle’s ass, bitch
Drop you off at the bus station, bitch
Leave you flailin’ in consternation, bitch
Take the 181 to community college, bitch
Learn how to bow down to real knowledge, bitch
Time to retire like Mario Mendoza, bitch
Cuz I’ma roll over ya like a bulldoza, bitch
This is gettin’ boring so I’ll just say this, bitch
Yer rappinin’ ain’t happenin’ so just sit down, bitch
I’m not Snoop.
Bitch pleeeease, how you gonna even try to come at me?
I won’t hesitate to do a dime for assault and battery
You came up in my space with your dinky couplets
I’ll turn your white ass into minced-up pork cutlets
Try to get the last word when you got a blog
Until that day you’ll be like Iggy Pop’s dog
I hope you’re ready to feel my hands
Cuz I’ll knock your block into foreign lands.
Cipher!
WMD – that’s coo. I think we’re done lol.
This is my blog now, you punk motherfucker
Put that keyboard away, we don’t want to see you suffer
Naw, JK, I wanna see you squirm, bro
In the dirt and the leaves just like a worm, yo
Whatta the Old Testees be sayin’? Not today, Satan?
Take ya bitch-ass back to Rat City, cuz you ain’t gettin’ no pity
Not from me, not this week, not this year, shit’s gettin’ bleak
Hope you got a power of attorney, cuz I’m ending your journey
Sending you to the ER? Fuck no, sending you to the graveyard
You, battlin’ me? Little piggy fly,
Ya rhymes so bad you making Biggie cry
In his grave with no lacrimal glands
Flesh all gone with his skeleton hands
Reach out for you and take you back underground
Cuz there’s no place for you on this here battleground
Now you got the keys, ya fuckin’ sad clown
Kindygarten freeplay, wear your paper crown
I know I hurt your feelings, ya kinda looking pouty
So this is the final word. I’m outie.
hm, i don’t normally let somebody get the last word if it’s a diss, but you finally brought your A game, so alright. i let it stand.