God Of War
01-27-2013, 01:55 PM
posted on 4/7/01
TWrex
If SRap Black raps wack, I’ll attack before he gets to howl back
You smell foul jack, like a bowel stack; I’ll smack your jowls back
You’re nothing but a vowel hack and a consonant fraud in prime
Now stop wasting my baud times with all of your flawed rhymes
If you hear an applaud chime, I’m just trying to drown your voice
If I had a choice, I would rather be listening to some white noise
Even if you had a twin brother, you couldn't get a double you
Please don’t let this loss trouble you and not feed your ego, too
I am almost sure you're still good enough for Needle's crew
You’re about as wack as if they made "Meet The Dweedles 2"
How long have you emceed, fourteen days? You’re two week
The “cue/seek” buttons are being pressed whenever you speak
Too bleak is a good synonym for the rhymes you’re creating
You couldn't even flow if you were tamponless & menstruating
You’re hereby sentenced to a life of wackness without parole
You’ll forever be the new Chuck-E-Cheese game, “SRap-A-Mole”
I'll bash your whole legs until you need a walker like Hershel
I know this rhyme hurts you, so let's cut to a commercial....
As an emcee, do you get shit-on on a daily basis? Do you find it hard to clean off? Do you still reek like shit after a losing battle? Then reach for Scotts! Scott's Whiting Tissue will wipe it all off in a matter of seconds then you all good to go clubbing later that night.
Punk bitches like you are more com-in than dots, son
You get tossed overboard just like you were flotsam
I’m like perpetual motion, there's no use trying to stop
My verses are so ill, they've got stomachs tying in knots
Your open mics get paid less attention than limp dicks get
You couldn't roll hard with a pocket full of stale biscuits
You must write all of your lyrics on George Forman grills
Because it all lacks phatness and hard to swallow like pills
Even swinging at wet clothes you couldn't even punch lines
Your lyrics can't stand up; they must have hunched spines
Trying to battle me must be worse than facing your fears
I’ll leave you seeing more stars than Space Station Mir
More beaten, bruised and bloody than Reginald Denny
More disposable and worthless than a counterfeit penny
More confused than farmers putting horseshoes on cattle
TWrex
If SRap Black raps wack, I’ll attack before he gets to howl back
You smell foul jack, like a bowel stack; I’ll smack your jowls back
You’re nothing but a vowel hack and a consonant fraud in prime
Now stop wasting my baud times with all of your flawed rhymes
If you hear an applaud chime, I’m just trying to drown your voice
If I had a choice, I would rather be listening to some white noise
Even if you had a twin brother, you couldn't get a double you
Please don’t let this loss trouble you and not feed your ego, too
I am almost sure you're still good enough for Needle's crew
You’re about as wack as if they made "Meet The Dweedles 2"
How long have you emceed, fourteen days? You’re two week
The “cue/seek” buttons are being pressed whenever you speak
Too bleak is a good synonym for the rhymes you’re creating
You couldn't even flow if you were tamponless & menstruating
You’re hereby sentenced to a life of wackness without parole
You’ll forever be the new Chuck-E-Cheese game, “SRap-A-Mole”
I'll bash your whole legs until you need a walker like Hershel
I know this rhyme hurts you, so let's cut to a commercial....
As an emcee, do you get shit-on on a daily basis? Do you find it hard to clean off? Do you still reek like shit after a losing battle? Then reach for Scotts! Scott's Whiting Tissue will wipe it all off in a matter of seconds then you all good to go clubbing later that night.
Punk bitches like you are more com-in than dots, son
You get tossed overboard just like you were flotsam
I’m like perpetual motion, there's no use trying to stop
My verses are so ill, they've got stomachs tying in knots
Your open mics get paid less attention than limp dicks get
You couldn't roll hard with a pocket full of stale biscuits
You must write all of your lyrics on George Forman grills
Because it all lacks phatness and hard to swallow like pills
Even swinging at wet clothes you couldn't even punch lines
Your lyrics can't stand up; they must have hunched spines
Trying to battle me must be worse than facing your fears
I’ll leave you seeing more stars than Space Station Mir
More beaten, bruised and bloody than Reginald Denny
More disposable and worthless than a counterfeit penny
More confused than farmers putting horseshoes on cattle