Times I Win

It's times like this.

Why do you make me rhyme like this?

The matrix hasn't time to re-code my zip code; bringing me to your shit mode.

Lack of consciousness in flow.

Whack of nonexistent ammo.

Lyrically max the speedo when I mach a brief flow.

Free-flow when I lack control.

Breeze mode when I'm spitting freeze mode on these enemies.

Transmitting tendencies of decease mode with melodies that put forth the cheat code.

I'm in the hot seat; the boiling peak node, the joining link road.

I'm not Street, I'm global holding the oval over the focal, postal not vocal but total lost of control, though.

When I cross the street to murder you pro bono.

Cock back to the speed to slow-mo.

Watch me clock the flow go super slow though.

I'm winning but I didn't enter the race.

I'm going at a super-duper fast.

Now, I'm at the dinner place; eating up the winner plate.