Trophy Room (PSA freestyle)

[Intro]
Good evening. It has been brought to my attention that there still are wack rappers out there. And in my ongoing effort to rid the world of said wack rappers, I am forced to come and take heads once more. So without further ado…

[Verse]
Hip-Hop 101, there’s rules to this class, son
Be an original writer, never a biter—that’s Task1ne
On some quick-draw shit, they’re trying to pull a fast one
But that gun’s a cap gun, and Tabs One’s a magnum
I’m a one-man Marvel vs. Capcom
Coal’s a maniac, and that’s who I learned to scrap from
I give a fuck if you wack crumbs are platinum
This here’s a breath of fresh air to a collapsed lung
I don’t care if you got that semi cocked, I’ll throw heavy shots
That’ll knock you into amnesia, call them forget-me-nots/knots
This the type of talk that get me locked, this fed-up wop
Will let the machete chop the head of a Fetty Wap
Got a blade to sever these great pretenders so that
They remember being the fakest ever is a fatal error
Knew you were straight placenta from the day I met ya, staying
With the gay agenda, changing genders, bunch of Caitlyn Jenners
Your frame of mind is cancerous, blinded by avarice
And shiny amulets, only amateurs try and capture this
I ain’t having it, this bastard’s a disaster when frying cannabis
The mic is what I’m frying you lying bastards with
It’s kind of hazardous. Even if I die, I’m rising
After it like I am Lazarus inside of Nazareth
I ride with a tribe of homicidal savages, I’m sure
I’m not alone when I say I watch the thrown like Gaius Cassius
So here’s my public service announcement: I’ll murder
You cowards and all the rest of them fucking herbs that you’re down with
The mic is the weapon that I’m burning you clowns with
Run up in your session with my brethren and turn it to Auschwitz
These internet herbs are like verbal accountants
(“You already said those words”) You fucking nerd, don’t worry about it
My job is to have rapper’s heads perfectly mounted
On a mantle with the word “Example” circled around it. What this
Emcee recites leaves the mic looking like a lit torch
As a rebel, I eat my devil’s pie with a pitchfork
This thought will leave ‘em distraught. Man, these rappers
Mad as hatters ‘cause we manufacture what they import
Dead the bullshit and slick talk. Sound like you wrote
Your raps in lip gloss rocking Lil Kim’s gym shorts
The fans have been ripped off, the game needs to be policed
Correction officer, I ain’t talking Rick Ross
You’re worried about some fake beef, Drake, Meek, and a ghost writer
I’m worried that AB is literally a ghost writer
Someone should of aborted your whole cypher
Bunch of fraudulent douches supporting the music of a known biter
I’m an old-timer, product of them gold rhymers
You hoes are ‘bout as fire as a firehose vs. a broke lighter
Ain’t got shit on these men, we don’t Depend on adult diapers
When I grab a mic, that’s a sign I’m a strike like a pro-lifer
Blow by ya in a lowrider, bumping Deep Cover
The Pun and Joe version to show serpents how we treat suckers
Us old-timers hold it down for each other. I’m no thug
It’s in my nature to show love like a tree-hugger
Sick author spitting darts at your clique partner
Fuck rapping, I have a funny reaction when it gets darker
That’s when I burn “Bridges” like Kris Parker with a
Bic sparker ‘til I got that shit looking like a lit sparkler
Shit-starter, fists of spliffs I hit harder
Go head-on with this kamikaze if you wanna get martyred
I’ll write “Bitch” on your grave in big marker then fuck your bitch
That’s right, y’all, she’ll be catching this Viking’s balls like Cris Carter
But fuck it, nevermind, I’d rather spend
My time filling every mind with my clever rhymes
I’m heaven-sent divine, you never met my mind. You know
He’s lyrical like the Department of Motor Vehicles’ endless lines
You only down to ride, I grab the wheel while you lick
The ass of the master for the mass appeal
Fuck how you faggots feel. Y’all are wack, and that’s for real
You can eat my dick and my sack—now that’s a package deal
Please believe he don’t need a Visa to pull your Mastercard
He’s a monstrous beast, leaves his mark on beef like a cattle prod
They call me Wild Cat ‘cause of the way I shatter stars
Leave them Mallomars with massive scars every half a bar
A battle god trapped in an avant-grade avatar
Crash-landed from Mars on top of your fancy cars. You
Faggots are rocking mascara and wearing bras
I’m aware that’s where you are, sicker than the kid’s cancer ward
Advance for war, could give a fuck if your clique with ya
Y’all ain’t rowdy, you’ll get Ronda Rouseyd by my kid sister
L, Pun, Wallace, and Kane when I spit scriptures
All four on the jumbotron, the big picture
I ain’t in it for the Grammy though, my family knows
There’s food for thought I can bestow, but you keep your pantry closed
Could give a fuck about Wiz Khalifa and Amber Rose
I’m more concerned I don’t know which is wearing the pantyhose
Now watch the hood lose it. I think CyHi
The only one in G.O.O.D. Music that actually makes good music
The rest just looks stupid, that’s why the kids took to it
Play that shit out my speakers, and I’ll put my foot through it
Fuck that battle, y’all thought it was really hype
Fucking hardly, more like a slumber party pillow fight
You try to tell me that them kids is nice, might have
To Run Your Jewels ‘cause neither hops on an LP (El-P) to kill a mic (Killer Mike)
I’ll piss on your top rhymers
Then hogtie your non-cypher cock-riding blog writers
‘Bout to set the bar a lot higher. Come and
Get me, son. This is flaming 151 shots fired

[Outro]
(Buck-Buck) Once again, fuck all of y’all. I’m tired of these wack-ass rappers. Fucking faggots, I spit on y’all