I make vorpal swords look dull when I reposition my edges,
makin' you fall down the full K2 ledges,
Hitting u with this outburst as a curse in reverse - fu you and drown.
Yew intelligence is ya worst defense vs my diverse gear.
R'u still down. Stay clear or suffer the consequence of being a noun,
a none crucial noun as the king once again dispend the expendable pawn,
bitch, here comes the end of this sentence; 'tis be my town.
Ffs even that mediocre sentence got u shook wtf again - ffs common,
mental note stop kickin' on ya bitchass while you still down;
so mind ya fat behind unable to stay afloat or flee but you vs. me?
witty ain’t u whity u just too silly and cant hold down deities like me,
but let’s not agree as you were never able to forsee;
I would have ya ‘pwnd heedlessly runnin' like a chicken (the hookline, one head less for nick, Potter).
let's refer to this an outer body experience or call it travel so we can marvel,
at your tale running but still no tellin’ you not knowin’ how to tell ya beaten. (turning tail already chicken?)
by the man who talk about himself in the proper form of 'we' admittedly,
being called the king while your the subjected bitchazz left wondering,
how your ill loyal subject ass gon stand idle when I'm compete ting.
Chattering like a squirrel in a coma callin’ for moma so she might stone’ya.
Now I got ya utterly defeated penetratin’ yew wetted flows like sonar.
Headless how the fuck ya gon revaluate when your knees shake on the break
wiff yew mouth loose spit flowing but ever so failing to communicate.
Now exercise how to excommunicate your grammar without stutter/stammer,
Fuck that, mind, I jus decapitate your bitchass in an artistically manner.
U so cheated cuz wits unable to cope with my verbal hammer (bling, ding, playback and sing)
dumbstruck you numb-fuck by the blunt cuttin’ your bichass open like a blade.

Black Blade Fatality = Perfect win.
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