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Alias
We all know i'm better, yet u keepin' it bottled inside/ so Imma write "esteem" on my cock, so you can swallow ya pride/ reachin' deep inside and tuggin at ya vascular strands/ Speed typin with sore hands and carpal tunnel wristbands/ have the tracks from ya sig jumpin' right outta ya discman/ Get pounded with fist Fam, hit with more than you reckoned/ Im testin' in seconds, OKP freestyle constanly reppin'/ dismantle ya whole steez while ya heavin ya chest in/ Ya vision is blurred as another KO is incurred/ when you awake maybe Ric will tell ya what just occured/ My voice is preferred, and this battle is plain absurd/ Ya keystyles like MS-Office apps... Micro Soft Words!/ Ya voice lost amongst the herd, ya boyish words make me yawn/ When ya saw I was up next you shoulda simply withdrawn/ I aint wastin no more lines, cuz your conclusion is forgone/ I'll let ya check mate ya self since ya just a silly pawn/ when even birds fly around you cuz ya aint worth ish'in on!/ I'm freestyle's Despot & this free was just a rest stop/ but it retired you just like Carter but with out the S dot/
Carterboy
who i'm battlin'? alias? more like a no name/ is he the only one there is? it must of been a slow day/ lemme guess whut he go'n say: he fucked my girl, fucked my mom, my crew is wack, an' pro'lly accuse me o' bein' gay/ yeah, i heard it all before, even used them lines myself/ dude should get 'is solid snake on, an' practice 'is stealth/ 'cause guns a-blazin' wont be good for yo' health/ take you out wit' a semi, finals come an' you wont be left/ my jams is def, while you just so so/ i'm universal, while go'n be more like the rawkus label, that is, no mo'/ i'm the best there is, an' you just bad, boy/ i'm a play bully, take the tourney from you, like your last toy/ but we both got punchlines, that's how we similar, though/ i punch out, like myke tyson, while you go down, like glass joe/ i'll tell the real reason you sag clothes/ you talkin' out ya butt, i blast those/ who think they the shyt, but really just assholes/ you pro'lly think you drop emcees, like ong-bak/ but while you study martial arts, my style is more like a gun, cocked/ with a trigger finger itch/ an' i just let off my third round, and the sounds from the blast, got you actin' a bytch/ ya voice too high pitched/ you oughtta just quit/ an' ya whole rap career, you might as well just forget/ i know you hopin' i ain't try, an' i didn't/ but i'm still comin' stronger than popeye, after some spinach/ an' you put forth ya' best effort/ tryin' to find rhymes that's clever/ but you gotta realize, you wont be a king, never/ ever/ fuck wit' me.
Let me sport my Air Hyperbole 2010s in peace. (c) ansomble
Building repetoires (c) spm since 1983
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