Whateva jus' spit ya verse before the battle closes.

Tie your 'fists to cement', so you can come with some 'hard hit
punches'//
I smell victory cuz the only 'sure'-thing under ya arms is 'crutches'//
Makin more blunders than retarded stuntmen, my 'drunken-style' leaves you sober, face down//
cant handle 'daps', arm fall'n off from me giving you this 'pound'//
you found the path of death, I shatter text with claws wrapped around this bastard's neck//
Ancedote's attempts to surpass this MC, but I originated the style he hasn't mastered yet...//
I Pack a fist full of strength--, for this Ass-WIpe//
You feather-light, staler than a cooked pot, packed with yellow-rice//
The only illnes in your head is lice, I'm twice your skills at half a slice//
Ya bootleg flows only half tha price//