The New 900 Number

You pass me, that’s blasphemy

I rap magically, fantastically

Battle me, that’ll end tragically

Bad as me, you’d absolutely have to be

I happily spit it so craftily, nastily

So sad to see rappers going after me

Your adverse verses flow so disastrously

My worst dispersed is still a show of mastery

Call me Your Majesty, so in fact you'll see

I'm tactically crafting a nasty masterpiece

Lastly this raspy beast composes poetry

Hope nobody chose to go toe-to-toe with me

A lone stroke from me, they're broken vocally

As dope as me, nobody can hope to be

On the mic I strike so potently, cogently

You know it's me, the one and only show to see

Spoken boastfully, with devotion, ferociously:

Locally, I'm known to be the master, openly

As a rapper, you're a disaster - a joke to me

Poke and provoke me, I'm prone to overreact

No holding me back, coldly I boldly attack

Show emotion like a throwback JoDeCi track

Those are only the facts; you can use the fiction

My abusive use of diction and truth producing friction

Is a loose depiction of the jurisdiction's affliction

Soon it's true addiction, like heroin and you'll never win

Ever since the onset I come with constant concepts

Nonsense content won't dent or augment; it's a bomb threat

To make it less complex, I'll address the context:

My skill will still kill you; and it won't be a contest.