hvað segist, mín fyrsta rýma sem ég pósta, mar er að reyna struggla, en checkiði þetta….
my skills are far beyond a prophets imagination/
since creation/ive been speakin what was printed in the books of revelations/
it takes patience/to see beyond this fake shit/at fast paces/
i utter the basics of an mcs fakeness/im as sick as a gay rapist/
is obvious ur shit came straight outta the streets/
off the sidewalk near the dog shit…so watch ur feet/
this mothaland kat will make you lose focus/
wit my hocus pocus hypnosis/so dont lose focus/
or you'll miss this icelandic lyricist/who makes verbal fists/
that taste sour like lemon twists/
everybody that battles me wishes on the same star/
spittin bars of lame marks/exit battle wit brain scars……and that was jus the warm-ups before this game starts……uhh….let me git up in this session/
dont need to keep a clip on my hip for protection/
so heres anotha session/of poetic blessin/
cause me without the mic is like salad wit no dressin/
my whole purpose is to hurt prix and squirt piss/
spit on beserk chix that i flirt wit/im off the scale like a planet shatterin earthquake/
ill go back in time to ur birthdate/
pull u out ur mothers womb and squeeze u till ur neck breaks/
so how can u battle thee/mcee/wit multiple personalities/
my own insanity, causes me to rip my insides out and perform my own anotomy
im so damn cold i gotta wrestle my pen so it could spit out ink/
you so feminine even ur semens pink/

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