Rap Battle #8

Inside you're trying, outside you're dying,

for you this is tiring and I'm roaring

but you're boring and my raps are soaring.

Want to act hard, then act hard,

but we all know you're sweating,

and with the standards I'm setting,

you'll get hung in a scrapyard.

Can't you see, I'm what you can't be,

levels higher than your hight

I take flight, destroy on sight for spite,

if you wanna rap against me, fucking get it right.

Suppose I'll talk slow with simple words, you're clearly a toddler,

why do I bother with your ass,

you're no Shakur so stop the act, faker.

Only drive-by you've experienced is at McDonalds,

found you in the back room, sucking Ronald's,

we all know you think that's a happy meal

and with a certain appeal

for you to wrap your lips around it and squeal,

a more magical scene for you than anything by Stephen Speil.

 

Raps sting so hard, you need a riot shield,

all I hear is "I yield, I yield!"

But there aint no mercy, you've gone into percy,

you need CPR,

but no one to help,

get flicked away like a cigar.

I see you rolling with your cilque, basic and it makes me sick,

I roll with a certain mystique

and a rap technique that makes me unique

you're an antique that won't last the week,

so in this industry,

what do you seek?

I'm blowing up, so just call me the Boston Bomber,

see you in my hood, get grabbed by the collar,

I'm the punk-stomper-poser-stopper

and I'm not even somber.

Buddy, you can't win a kingpin,

welcome to my kingdom,

you're a little bit special, I gotta ask if you have a syndrome?

Get thrown up and slammed down like a burger patty,

your appearance is tatty,

in battles I win like the Bengals of Cincinnati.

Let this be a warning, to you and other fakes,

because when you get fucked up,

no one's gonna call it a "mistake".