Go ahead and call me Houdini, cuz im a lyrical magician//
The way you build yourself up we should call you Asylum the Tactician//
And how do my rhymes dissapear if I have none//
my words are bullets and my mouth is the magnum//
its too bad, im not feelin’ your shit like I was a paraplegic//
Yet mine will leave your ego bruised as if you were anemic//
I know you’re anticipatin’, and waitin’ on my shit for me to write it//
I’m not rubbin’ your clit pussy, stop gettin’ excited//
I thought this was a battle, I didn’t know this was scrimmage for a football game//
That’s fine, Ill be Randy Moss and you can be the sideline, joe schmoe, whats-his-name//
And you spit lines that make me shake like parkinson’s disease?//
It’s all good, I spit lines that make you worry like someone just stole your house keys//
No medical terms please, leave that shit to the doctor//
My vocabulary will leave you baked like Betty Croker//
Im done with this clown, someone can have my regurgitations//
I just left his ass sore like he lived in a gay nation (no homo)//
And that’s my 16, good luck to you on your second verse. Lookin’ forward to reading it.
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