You speak of gilded kingdoms;
I'll show you soot and slums.
You may forecast blue skies;
but I'll show you storms to come.
You think your words are lances;
they're really vocal dung.
Before you craft a chorus,
you'll hear ten songs I've sung!
You'll see your staying words,
they'll flit and scare like birds,
when facing logic's army,
and met with reason swords.
I'll converse a two-move checkmate
while you still set the board.
You may two-step feelings,
but my truth you can't avoid
'Cause its a meeker mind you seek,
so hold your tongue like you can’t speak.
You’ll be shipwrecked on a beach
‘cause God won’t hear the words you preach.
My Tyson tongue has got you beat!
You’re washed up, I’m at my peak.
My words, the white-cap mountains,
your answers lie beneath.
I’ll spit your vocal funeral,
leave you silent in your grief.
These boasts can break tree branches,
you'll be shaking like a leaf.
My quips will leave you quakin’
you’ll think the Earth has shook
You’ll feel my flow is fire
You'll be hurtin' from my hooks.