RAP Battle -Crooked Bars-

The anger I feel in you, but let me a little longer screw with you./
Until you reach your pitiful end, you`re an empty spot without a brand/
Victor`s scepter is all mine, my lyrics will never run dry/
Unlike yours, replacing heavy words with curses/
Let me dump on you a bunch of hot sauces, `cause you taste plain/
Go get some Exedrine, `cause you seem to be developing the migraine/
I can handle a spin at 3Gs like Gagarin did in the outer space/
But you keep venting like a punctured tire gone without a trace/
I am a stallion, kicking your ass with my steel hoof/
You are a low level wanna-be-rapper, your crooked bars are the proof/
Race of rap? You crawl like a turtle.
I easily step over you being prone.
L-i-am Porn-er, your place's on he knees in the corner.
Open your mouth wide 'cause my dick won't fit.
Where's your cert to teach me a lesson,
i hope i won't get infected with your messy verses.
Look directly at me, I'm your real boss,
go clean your face from dust like Katie Moss.
Other rappers need your lyrics to wipe their sick stomach droppings.
You ain't no poet but a wordless jokester.
I push you through a meat grinder, then blend the goo in Ninja blender.
I will not accept your surrender.
This is a match to the death and I foresee how it'll progress.
I will wind my Rolex, stash Franklins in my pocket,
start up my Beemer rocket, and go to the brothel to fuck bitches,
leaving you in the dust in convulsions twitching.