Copy:Originally Posted by PancakeBrah
i want to do something lighthearted. with lots of rhymes and stuff.
Did somebody say…
Lighthearted with lots of rhymes and stuff? My mics started, its cocky time, whatsup? I write varnish with glossy lines and brush you mild artists with monotonous styles that suck. I’m like farmers, my chop is prime when I cut, my mic harvests in bulk supply what you love. I’m multi rhymin this up, I’m Dull combined with some Bwah, and Vulgar lines for you Brahs, emulsified when I bust. I ultraviolet you fucks like hotel exposés. This son is blinding you chumps.. oh well, get some rays. Coattail texters stay riding my thick cape. My flow stay Texas, way I fry you in this state. The brightest to spit waves, the title is sick. Spray tidals amidst lame writers who drip H..Two Oh, you know that my style is a big lake. Submerging so deep like I’m diving with fish eggs. I’m kindof a dick eh? My flow is the soggiest. I rhyme in a big way, the whole enchilada shit. Your flowin is on the fritz.. leaky faucet style. I’m blowin the nozzle tips, leave you sopping style. Reading Copy’s files like swimming in flood plains. Leave ya body dyed from the drizzling blood stains.
Lars:
Freedom costs a price, I'll give you my months pay, to leave me off the right of the wilderness. Drunkscape. I'll even offer twice what you were wishing for, cuntface. Fishing for someplace instead of compliments in this digital upgrade we're heading nonetheless. I convalesce with Cherry's Darlings in rotten bedroom-esque apartments. I've lost my head and Penny Farthing but what the heck? Lets get it started. I’m Boba Fett, the deadly marksman atop the deck ya fledgling starship offing heads and pressing targets. I’ve got the stench of every carcass and rotten eggs filling my nose. I’m plotting deaths, thinking of home & what I left. Glimmer of hope dithering slowly. Living alone isn’t as rosy as my palms are. I’m nosy as an aardvark. Blow me, I’m a lard arse who stays loaded up with Mars bars, blowing dust with rass clarts and known for hustling card sharks.
Certain:
I'm too compulsive to miss an apostrophe. Get off of me. I've got a dismissive discography, giving bitches shit for their witless phrenology: medulla oblongata weak. Preach, brother. I see Yoda in the street hovering with speech bubbles like Batman. Adam West. Bang zoom. I've got unique tumbleweed deep puzzles to keep smothering weak-muscled emcees under me. Shatter chests. Bang zoom. King-sized master bed swag, too. Let me plaster that crag-tooth bitch with a right hook. After, I'll cuddle up with a nice book. Black president. Whites shook. Track residents with spy crooks. Wax endless yet my ears are clean. Weird with schemes, medium rare but completely raw. I'm decent y'all. Speeding off with prosthesis clogs. I'm nothing less than a ouija God trapped in a genie jar.
Split Eight:
I don't know what I'm facing, but I'll still go super-saiyan. Do a mean Vegeta, lethal and brainless when I steep in deep focus and apex. Trade up my homies, steam cook their faces, lemon-law with citrus arrangement, capers and codeine. That shimmery shine is simply the greed in my iris. I'm an aikido goliath, chain locks, spit keys and arm-bars. I don't bow at the knee for encore pleas, I crowdsource, pressure-point deep in thugs who freely bound forth, like stretching knees for olympic parkour. Fifteen thou logarithmic foot-pounds of torque. Slipstream, carve curves, in tidal-locked waves of jugular blood spurts. Final fantasy, I fucks with the sunburst.
Darth Yoda:
Want to know the reason I'm speaking so oddly and write? I'll let you in ona secret. (he's) Uniquely ungodly at times. You're a leaflet. Precariously perched on this tree. To me you're a branch or a vine. Styles golden. Money doesn't grow in the wrong tree you're barking up, riep. Most critics critiquing call me a genius, compared to Einstein cause' Neitzsche is harder to type. Technique is an embodiment thesis, get sparks to ignite. Cryogenic telekinesis. Embodying Jesus, reading Psalms 2-through-5. Your highly facetious style in speak, is beneath in kilometers, I'm. A philosopher. A novelist poet, wound in conduit, unbeknownst. No theologian known to man could understand why I ordered sculptors to sculpt by hand my monolith with me hunched over as if I were blowing gas. I'm just morbid. I like to call myself an existenchalist. With just extra credentials and better rhythm and a blatant disrekierkegaard to existentialism. You probably looked that up cause that's not how you spell regard. Hellish. Afar from most wouldve fell and departed their souls from the body them held them and helped them support, during birth, from the womb I ordered a c-section of course, so the doctors and nurses would presume they could start the remorse, and use every curse word rehearsed, cause they delivered this embellishing serpent to Earth. You don't spank me, I spank you, using my umbilical cord. I'm a ungod. Use a scrub nurse as hostage. Mom passes out from the blood-loss. Fuck a mental, this is a metaphysical ward. Burn about 1/3rd of the hospice. Cynical warlord. Using bibs to cover the corpse. Murder the Gerber baby. & when they stitched her up everyone in the room would remember the scars.
Reply With Quote
