PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Step up? Mo' like step down. You need a ladder to reach the level I'm on..

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Nobody on ya jock, that's itch - prison bych ya got

Doin' hard time will fvck you up from behind..

So I leave you achin' behind my bars and between these lines

Read 'em and weep, listen and learn

And like Usher says, let it burn baby burn..

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I take ya pulse, juggle ya beats

Diagnosis: a fake MC

I strike to ya heart, rip you apart

Till there's nuthin' left in ya chest

Not a shred of respect, a gram of cred

Soulless and hopeless, shook and flowless

An empty smokin' shell when I pop ya chops

With lead from ma 9 mil till ya body flops

I'm a hip-hop prop collector n*gga..

Everytime I drop, I get another fan letter

Check my email, read one from ya female,

"I wanna real male, tired of this damn shemale!"

I owned you playa and now I stole ya base

New diagnosis: fatal loss of face.

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N*gga please, I'm on top a you like missionary, gotchu wishin' you was me, searchin' tha dictionary fo ya missin' vocabulary.

But this game is in my veins, the air that I breathe, these blessed abilities you can't ever take from me.

I got tha gift of gab, my flow is supernatural, like H2O my words are liquid swords to decapitate you.

Another mindless herb served up like Nicholas Berg...

Terror strikes whenever I take to tha mic, and rhyme so much titer I'm like a caped crusader.

Now, wave ya lighters and watch the crowd shimmy like buttery rolls on Oprah's Je-lLo booty.

All eyes on me, center stage - you still hidin' in tha curtains afraid to get blazed?

Truth be told, this game is sold for profit, but where's ya receipt, kid? - It obvious you ain't "got it."

This battle was over before it even begun, I'm up in tha Majors, you down pitchin' Lil' League, son.  

Now you smoked to a crisp, burnt-out overdone...

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I'm gettin' tired of you noobs, ain't even know how to rap

Y'all need to go back to school, for the blind but not def!



You can't beat me, you can't even join me,

I'm a 1-man army, and you still can't touch me.

So pack ya bags and catch a flight home,

You so outta place, lost in tha Twilight Zone.



Just "Return to Sender" cuz this male "Can't Deliver"

Yea, you like a magazine, "deliver only weakly.."



Ha, I got so many punches rolled up in these sleeves,

You a punch-drunk fool to step in tha ring wit me.

Beat ya head with a flurry like a speedbag 'till it's blurry...

Rattle and hum, that the sound ya brain makes when I pound you like a drum.



The only MC I could never beat is me,

Mic check 1, check 2...checkmate 3.



Multi pun-ches, s'word play, verb'n as-salt 'n pepper spray in ya face

Leavin' you blind as 3 mice,  lost ya mind when you rolled tha dice...

Forget tha ladder, you need a helicopter...h*ll a rocket to get up here faster.

But the closest you'll get is thru a telescope and chart set,

Cuz all you see is stars when you get hit by these bars,

K.O. rounds 1-5.  Every hot punchline crushin' ya spine.

No split decision, just a split in ya cranium.

Eyes burnin' from my halo glowin' hot like uranium.



Had enough?  Prolly not.  You take more abuse than my G-Shock watch...