God Of War
01-28-2013, 05:34 PM
posted on 11/6/00
Nightmare
I induce anatomical agony in those who think to battle me/ slash emcees with big ego’s until they’re lesser than half of me/ savagery and brutality is rampant in every stroke of the pen/ your flow isn’t shit, you need lyrical focus to win/ notice that when I speak I’m regared as a pro with this gift/ where-as your soft spoken in spits, but you may just be too bold to admit/ the darkness you hopin to spit can be accomplished by eyes closin the lids/ here’s the focus again: my lyricism resembles a solar eclipse/ you came a lot sicker previously... I prefer the first shit that you posted/ but I notice the decrease in skills probably means that someone else wrote it/ and it’s either that or a flow which you quoted from some opponent/ so when you were defeated in the battle you still came out with a bonus/ your level of life is the lowest that the board has had the leisure to see/ apparently tryin to be an emcee, you’re little more than an amoeba to me/ single celled organism in command of little more than borin lyrics/ who’s worded limit can’t exceed bars about whores and bitches/ check your appearances, Psylentz is too feminine to be a lyricist/ but still he’s too genderless to be classified as a bitch that spits/ situation is critical... because although you didn’t let it hinder you/ the lack of lyrical skill in you is matched by your lack of genitals/ so until your skill improves, it’s “Common” Sense for me to display “the bitch in you”/ through space age audio visual rippin you becomes a ritual/ through your lack of talent you have commited travesty: disgrace to the Gods/ punishment for breakin the law is forced writing and being anally raped with your bars/
lyrically TAKE YOU APART!... you remain disheveled and disassembled/ recognize that I spit official even at the point when the disses hit you/ I spit with missles, but it’s useless because your lack of fire evades the heat seekers/ so I tune the reciever as you talk shit the missle will seek speakers/ specifically those with low intelligence, denotin rhetorics/ your mental abilities are so obviously stunted that I don’t need a show of evidence/ my flow is heaven sent, you hesitant to do battle with/ my accuracy is unmatched by you and other average emcees/ so Ill I may even have a disease, I bring havoc, emcees know the only one spittin rabid is me/ and even my oppostition has to agree that in a word fight with T the result is havin to flee/ leavin you smashed with debris my first verse was enough to end you/ now on the second wind and yet again I rip you like I was ginsu/ my mental capability is sharper than a serrated edge/ throwin knife balanced right and launching straight at your flesh//
:If people want to know how I posted three battles so quick, I had them typed on my Microsoft Word Document:
vs
Psylentz
in nineteen hundred eighty three, the world never expected me, as you can see, evidently, i broke the mold indefinetly.
Yo night"mare" git off yer high horse, watch as my rhyme disease moves through it's course. Talent like mine is embedded, leaving you sliced, diced, julianed and shredded. Can't compete with the heat, get the f*ck outta my kitchen, i'm down right tired of yer bitchin, and tired of the bull shyt that yer pitchin
all i'm lookin for is a little love, so i can rain fire on yer ass from my final place above. You'd should stop rappin bad rhymes and wrap me a victory present, cause i'm your FS king, yer just one of my peasants.
Ain't nevah gonna be dethroned, wouldn't be prudent, to be overthrown by a schooled student. The winner of this "computer" match is "basic". If you won, yer just gettin thrown more bones than cissy spacek, FS is music, but yer gonna decompose, from my rhymes, poetry and prose, you couldn't tell greatness from out under yer nose.
I can best describe yer style as monosyllabic, just makes me scream "i'm gonna be sick," it isn't ill, it just makes you feel that way, while peeps like me culminate talent everyday. My heads so full of rhymes, i babble lymericks, while all that cums to yer lips are other mc's dicks. Step up to the plate batter, i'm mad as a hatter, crazy as a manson, and i'm only gettin phatter.
Can't stop a freight train without a little pain, my rhyme scheme's hurtin my brain - yer vote's as good as dead, that's all for now, i've emptied my head.
Nightmare
I induce anatomical agony in those who think to battle me/ slash emcees with big ego’s until they’re lesser than half of me/ savagery and brutality is rampant in every stroke of the pen/ your flow isn’t shit, you need lyrical focus to win/ notice that when I speak I’m regared as a pro with this gift/ where-as your soft spoken in spits, but you may just be too bold to admit/ the darkness you hopin to spit can be accomplished by eyes closin the lids/ here’s the focus again: my lyricism resembles a solar eclipse/ you came a lot sicker previously... I prefer the first shit that you posted/ but I notice the decrease in skills probably means that someone else wrote it/ and it’s either that or a flow which you quoted from some opponent/ so when you were defeated in the battle you still came out with a bonus/ your level of life is the lowest that the board has had the leisure to see/ apparently tryin to be an emcee, you’re little more than an amoeba to me/ single celled organism in command of little more than borin lyrics/ who’s worded limit can’t exceed bars about whores and bitches/ check your appearances, Psylentz is too feminine to be a lyricist/ but still he’s too genderless to be classified as a bitch that spits/ situation is critical... because although you didn’t let it hinder you/ the lack of lyrical skill in you is matched by your lack of genitals/ so until your skill improves, it’s “Common” Sense for me to display “the bitch in you”/ through space age audio visual rippin you becomes a ritual/ through your lack of talent you have commited travesty: disgrace to the Gods/ punishment for breakin the law is forced writing and being anally raped with your bars/
lyrically TAKE YOU APART!... you remain disheveled and disassembled/ recognize that I spit official even at the point when the disses hit you/ I spit with missles, but it’s useless because your lack of fire evades the heat seekers/ so I tune the reciever as you talk shit the missle will seek speakers/ specifically those with low intelligence, denotin rhetorics/ your mental abilities are so obviously stunted that I don’t need a show of evidence/ my flow is heaven sent, you hesitant to do battle with/ my accuracy is unmatched by you and other average emcees/ so Ill I may even have a disease, I bring havoc, emcees know the only one spittin rabid is me/ and even my oppostition has to agree that in a word fight with T the result is havin to flee/ leavin you smashed with debris my first verse was enough to end you/ now on the second wind and yet again I rip you like I was ginsu/ my mental capability is sharper than a serrated edge/ throwin knife balanced right and launching straight at your flesh//
:If people want to know how I posted three battles so quick, I had them typed on my Microsoft Word Document:
vs
Psylentz
in nineteen hundred eighty three, the world never expected me, as you can see, evidently, i broke the mold indefinetly.
Yo night"mare" git off yer high horse, watch as my rhyme disease moves through it's course. Talent like mine is embedded, leaving you sliced, diced, julianed and shredded. Can't compete with the heat, get the f*ck outta my kitchen, i'm down right tired of yer bitchin, and tired of the bull shyt that yer pitchin
all i'm lookin for is a little love, so i can rain fire on yer ass from my final place above. You'd should stop rappin bad rhymes and wrap me a victory present, cause i'm your FS king, yer just one of my peasants.
Ain't nevah gonna be dethroned, wouldn't be prudent, to be overthrown by a schooled student. The winner of this "computer" match is "basic". If you won, yer just gettin thrown more bones than cissy spacek, FS is music, but yer gonna decompose, from my rhymes, poetry and prose, you couldn't tell greatness from out under yer nose.
I can best describe yer style as monosyllabic, just makes me scream "i'm gonna be sick," it isn't ill, it just makes you feel that way, while peeps like me culminate talent everyday. My heads so full of rhymes, i babble lymericks, while all that cums to yer lips are other mc's dicks. Step up to the plate batter, i'm mad as a hatter, crazy as a manson, and i'm only gettin phatter.
Can't stop a freight train without a little pain, my rhyme scheme's hurtin my brain - yer vote's as good as dead, that's all for now, i've emptied my head.