MKLM Contest

You’re probably ready for another whack entry, well think again.

Bitch, I be  sicker than getting my syphilis from a little kid sibling

hence, I’m also sick in the head.

Mental prescriptions, give me my meds

and hope to god the sickness won’t spread.

I’ma switch it like opinions in Mitt Romney’s head.

‘Cause I ain’t drinking a keg, I ain’t gripping a tech,

I don’t live on the edge. I ain’t a hipster I bet,

I’m home watching “Sam & Cat”  with my hand on my dick in my bed

scripting with pens, with writtens more vicious than Hitler and his militant men,

depicting imminent death.

You’re more than a little, listen, you’re literally illiterate friend.

You ain’t spitting, you couldn’t spit if you got your uvula

and hit it till it ripped like scissors clipped it to shreds.

We’re different I guess.

I’m a sicko, I’m never giving a(r)rest, like pigs thinking criminals are innocent men.

Yo I’m the type of guy to decapitate your misses and then

give you the head, like Ellen Degeneres licking a les’.

Picture the rap game

getting fucked in the ass by it’s alcoholic dad with the same last name, I’m that man.

Tell me to put a snap back on my head, I’ll snap your head back and laugh like it was a rad prank.

I’m past strange, I’m a class A lunatic.

Proving to you you’re a stupid student that I’m tutoring

the movement the dude’s in my crew peruse in when we’re doing this.

Leaving you running from the bars like a fugitive.

I ain’t new to this, I had a booth in my mom’s uterus.

The ultrasound showed me bumping Shady and Ludacris.

I’m shady and ludicrous, I’m awkward and crazy

so beating you’s like taking candy from an autocratic baby.

You feel me? Bet you feeling boat loads of envy

’cause you feel me like furry walls after smoking a Jeffery.

Mother fucker I’m doper than that shit.

I’m dope with the tongue, similar to dopeness of acid.

See, you are now roaming in thoughts

of a dome that is cold as the snow in Vermont.

Skill is overly over the top.

Spoken and talked with the flow of god.

I‘m complex.

I see you dudes in this contest with no concepts

tryna be “lyrical, lyrical” nonsense.

Either that or you got no lyrical technique,

a so-pitiful pet peeve to those lyrical MC’s.

So typical, so it’s so critical to flow these dope syllable

on my own digital CD.

You’re old as those biblical scrolls

with no pivotal speech, he flow fictional repeats.

When it comes to flow, you flow minimal,

making your own principals. See me?

My flow’s pinnacle, reach me.

I know you can’t. You know it man.

I spit tighter than yoga pants on a fat ass homeless tramp.

I’m colder than a polar bear

shivering like Michael J Fox as an older man after drinking fifty soda cans.

Try to step to this.

You don’t know who you’re fucking with like a blind deaf chick

when she tried sexing after a wine beverage.

But look who got a buzz now.

It’s Token, shout out to Munky Gang for letting me come out.

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