Yo...

Check it...

Mr. Deva is a little under the weatha, beatin off about men in leatha,
His ryhmes are stupid, not cleva,
His momma is embrassed of him,
Give him a gun, complete wit a suicide letta,
My style is clearly betta,
Yo style is so wack, I could type a verse betta in the dark,
This fucker needs 3 lyrical ghosts to come in the night,
To get a change heart,
Somebody get this guy a fuckin' sweet tart,
E-Lyrical's got already a long head start,
Blow you apart,
I have already destroyed you, yo soul's depart,
I will slit ya throat,
And nobody would miss you,
the only ass you got,
was when ya fuckin dog kissed you,
They say flow don' win it...
Punches do...
Well fuck that, my rhymes leave ya cookoo,
Start doin wat ya supposed to,
It doesn't take much ta blast through you,
That's it! Give this fucker a lyrical pill,
Wha..wha..? Is this mother fucker here still?
Do I have to kill for the thrill?
Am I so ill, that I have to destroy every guy who smells like a pickled dill? (haha)
Deva betta step away,
before he feels my fist,
You can't even begin to fathom my gist,
My gift,
IS to real for you to fathom,
I see yo useless words,
And I stab 'em,
My rhymes r just to ill for this rap traffic,
Deva can't grasp it,
The fact that he can't hack it,
Neva was the father, and the mother,
To his fuckin' baby brother,
He doesn't have a clit,
Or a tit,
So he fed the baby with his fuckin' dick...

Good luck on the polls...