Meters bakes Yung's cracked clay on a tray of dissaray/
Until he breaks the mold and admits that he lacks the skills to fairly enter the fray/

Google search: Clever wordplay, now it's time for his prewrite/
'Finishing my verse in a minute doesn't arouse suspicion, right?'/

YungHeadWrecka negates the difficulty of the opposition/
What would he do if he lost his prewite, not write a verse at all and just listen?/

He types from the laptop in his closet I assume/
Because the last contact he had with poon is when he exited the womb/

His immense skills are inate maybe, because he was a premature baby/ God was playing a game with Lucifer called 'create the personification of scabies'/

Even if i was on an island your punches couldn't touch my style/
While i'm launching tomahawks, all you've got is a miss-isle/

Your structure cums out like a flow of conscious stream,/
While mine erupts with the power of a thousand geisers screamin' 'wet dream!',

Your battle record is two times loss, five times reign sup-reme/
It's a good thing that you have dick riding friends who don't mind getting their asses reamed/

I'm sure that death could improve your position at rapbattles.com/
Because you're already a dummy for n00bs to WRECK their cherries on without a condom donned/

My rhymes are my spawn, and two attack, one named de-feat, the other purg-atory/
Because once i've purged the board of you, you'll grovel at my feet and declare my glory/

YungHeadWrecka should think thrice before he responds because he ain't gonna smoke this herb/
I don't want his mind to be blurred before he hears the final word, the best he could do was third/

__________________
tobacco pipe smoker
escobar, your life is over
justify the righteous nova
bullets flew out his right shoulder