zygote
02-17-2014, 08:28 PM
Cro-Magnon, you’re under-evolved, I’ll send a drone pattern to your stone cavern,
Turn your home planet into whole fragments.
You’ll get your bones flattened. Defeating me? It won’t happen like something that won’t happen.
It’s like a brick in the ocean trying to struggle to swim, or a fish on land running with fins like a couple of limbs.
You chance of coming up with a win doesn’t exist like something that doesn’t exist.
What I craft is frightening - my class of writing should be described as “Frankenstein-ing.”
I’ll snatch your life chi twice as fast as flashing lightning,
Beating me is unlikely like beating something that’s unlikely.
You don’t want to be within my vicinity when resuming hostilities,
The best known epitome of written prose with efficiency,
With the best skill hooked up to a treadmill in a lunar facility to track motor agility and neuronal activity.
You call me sick so consistently pathologists check for immunodeficiencies.
Your skill is limited to your hopeless ability - my skill is over infinity,
You beating me? It’s such a low probability that there’s no possibility.
Go ahead and mobilize civilians, I’ll override positions with a motorized division,
Polarize opinions - split opponents into two like mitosis, splicing, fission.
My whole design is brilliant. Under tight controlled conditions I’m known to fry your system.
My newest method is like fuel injected motorcycle pistons -
I keep things moving with a codified precision like a poltergeist had risen.
Challenging me is the same as booking a weekend holiday only to spend the whole two nights in prison -
You’ll have a horrible time. Each one of my dominant lines has an ergonomic design,
Formed from a logical mind with micro-processors inside, each one is automated to find the optimal rhyme.
You pray to god for a sign, you get the reply - don’t bother to try.
My cognitive field will make you drop and then kneel, begging me to stop as you yield.
You are just a cog in a wheel for a cog in a wheel. My style’s been supreme since people called cars automobiles.
Do not even appeal, this is my court,
Force majeure until you’re forced to withdraw.
You beating me? That’s a ridiculous thought, you’re a paper thin wall trying to halt an irresistible force.
My rhyme’s classified as consistently-raw, your rhyme’s classified as fictional-false.
I witness your simple response with a wistful remorse -
like “I should have challenged someone else,”
Hunt opponents like I’m hunting elk, use your tongue as a pelt in a studded belt.
You’re better than me? Go fuck yourself.
There’s no sense to debate.
My method is great, I’m the best in this place and keep emphasizing the point like a decimal place.
Beat your effeminate face until you’re a specialist’s case.
Breaking you down into a chemical state.
Supercomputers don’t possess enough processing space to even contemplate the effort it takes for you to begin testing my pace.
Step up to the plate. I’m a murderous verbalist, the verbiage large.
I’ll knock you so far out of the park that you land on the surface of Mars.
I touch opponents and they fold up like convertible cars. You touch opponents and they thank you for the perfect massage.
It’s the return of the Czar. My style is refined like observing some art and describing the thing as ‘post-conservative noir.’
You’re a Saint Bernard and a carp – I’m a Cerberus dog and a circling shark.
I’ve disposed of so many opponents I deserve a reward, a long service award from all the Earth’s morgues and emergency wards.
My purpose is war and I’m purchasing arms. Battle the gote? Better hope there’s a merciful god.
Turn your home planet into whole fragments.
You’ll get your bones flattened. Defeating me? It won’t happen like something that won’t happen.
It’s like a brick in the ocean trying to struggle to swim, or a fish on land running with fins like a couple of limbs.
You chance of coming up with a win doesn’t exist like something that doesn’t exist.
What I craft is frightening - my class of writing should be described as “Frankenstein-ing.”
I’ll snatch your life chi twice as fast as flashing lightning,
Beating me is unlikely like beating something that’s unlikely.
You don’t want to be within my vicinity when resuming hostilities,
The best known epitome of written prose with efficiency,
With the best skill hooked up to a treadmill in a lunar facility to track motor agility and neuronal activity.
You call me sick so consistently pathologists check for immunodeficiencies.
Your skill is limited to your hopeless ability - my skill is over infinity,
You beating me? It’s such a low probability that there’s no possibility.
Go ahead and mobilize civilians, I’ll override positions with a motorized division,
Polarize opinions - split opponents into two like mitosis, splicing, fission.
My whole design is brilliant. Under tight controlled conditions I’m known to fry your system.
My newest method is like fuel injected motorcycle pistons -
I keep things moving with a codified precision like a poltergeist had risen.
Challenging me is the same as booking a weekend holiday only to spend the whole two nights in prison -
You’ll have a horrible time. Each one of my dominant lines has an ergonomic design,
Formed from a logical mind with micro-processors inside, each one is automated to find the optimal rhyme.
You pray to god for a sign, you get the reply - don’t bother to try.
My cognitive field will make you drop and then kneel, begging me to stop as you yield.
You are just a cog in a wheel for a cog in a wheel. My style’s been supreme since people called cars automobiles.
Do not even appeal, this is my court,
Force majeure until you’re forced to withdraw.
You beating me? That’s a ridiculous thought, you’re a paper thin wall trying to halt an irresistible force.
My rhyme’s classified as consistently-raw, your rhyme’s classified as fictional-false.
I witness your simple response with a wistful remorse -
like “I should have challenged someone else,”
Hunt opponents like I’m hunting elk, use your tongue as a pelt in a studded belt.
You’re better than me? Go fuck yourself.
There’s no sense to debate.
My method is great, I’m the best in this place and keep emphasizing the point like a decimal place.
Beat your effeminate face until you’re a specialist’s case.
Breaking you down into a chemical state.
Supercomputers don’t possess enough processing space to even contemplate the effort it takes for you to begin testing my pace.
Step up to the plate. I’m a murderous verbalist, the verbiage large.
I’ll knock you so far out of the park that you land on the surface of Mars.
I touch opponents and they fold up like convertible cars. You touch opponents and they thank you for the perfect massage.
It’s the return of the Czar. My style is refined like observing some art and describing the thing as ‘post-conservative noir.’
You’re a Saint Bernard and a carp – I’m a Cerberus dog and a circling shark.
I’ve disposed of so many opponents I deserve a reward, a long service award from all the Earth’s morgues and emergency wards.
My purpose is war and I’m purchasing arms. Battle the gote? Better hope there’s a merciful god.