I might be a bit mental, but you're the one called crazy.
Your flow was uneventful, your attempt just seemed lazy.
It's a feat that does impress, your lack of skill does amaze me.
Too late for you to confess, you're already pushing daisies.
You rhythm has no heart, you rhyme with no soul.
I'm ripping you apart, your words just run cold.
Some pass me over as fodder, but if I might be so bold.
Me out-witting a todler, baby you just better fold.
I'm like the mafia of the rhyme, presenting a musical shake down.
Your beat freezes in time, a complete cardiac breakdown.
My lines are a license to crime, i don't F*** around.
This match is as good as mine 'cause you're six feet underground.
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Chrono1219