Let me clear my throat,

So I can tell you I'm the G.O.A.T,

Yes the best that ever wrote,

Never been a better poet.

I put the words together,

So they float to your ears like a feather,

But smack you in the face,

Because your thoughts can't keep pace.

You can taste what I'm saying,

And smell it to,

Cause it like a filet migon,

It better when it raw,

Because it is without flaw.

Remember when you're reading this,

Don't think about it,

Because you to slow to get it,

Sorry if that comes across as a dis,

But my stuff has so much depth,

That it will swallow you and take your last breath.

I can write about death,

Or about theft,

Because never the less,

I will come across the best,

And you will be left,

Like the rest,

Wondering why you competing for second best.

So you tired because,

Because I just,

Shame you and make you lust,

For the talent I have when I bust.

Now trust,

That you must,

Deal with the talent,

That make your words look bent,

Asking you if you can use mine if you pay rent,

But sorry I won't relent,

Even after you long spent,

So just repent,

And deal with your no talent.

Now that I spoke,

Your words look broke,

And like spitting while you choke.

Everything you write is wrong,

While I write,

What is right,

So you should be long gone.

I'm tired of being sweet,

Don't try to cheat,

Your stuff will always be stinking feet,

So I'll just tell you peace.