Son assassinating...
Terra inhabitant, error megalith, it’s a saga, fight the terror shit
Mongoloid, toy soldier, hydro form the shapes of liquid mirror spit
Diligent with similar spillages silly with familiar pillages
Gritty, sick, a little fiddler getting rid the pity quick in a rhyme
Kicking wicked, the one out of a million millipedes filling needs
Drilling feeds of stickling sparkles, parting the bodies of spitters
Quitters, I’m sick with the witty middle way of golden languages
Hold the sold flows of molten anguish, stories told in broken sandals
Grappling notions of whose sick n sticking with flow potions
Slow motion, check it I still spell the hell outta any spelling bee
Telling the embellished needs of relevance and structure sucker
Obstructing fuckers, plucking dumb rotten and forgotten styles
You can make up words act tough and what!....rhyme wack
But the sublime tracts of blizz divine still outshine that blind crap
Fucker you’s weak, speak my name and get torn in hell’s flames
He fell lame, while I be rocking styles doper than qwel’s name
"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."
---Albert Einstein
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