Weeabo, play peeka boo.
It's hard to play nice with you.
Whip out the blade, slice you in two.
Like your rhymes, you're see through.
My rhymes will give you the flu.
They're so sick, bad beef stew.
Why don't you go get some glue,
and mix it up with shampoo
then inhale the mildew
you can't do what I will do.
You're translucent like a piece of plastic,
yet you still think you're fantastic.
I'm rhyming with talent, you just sound spastic.
You can pull me, but I'll snap back like elastic.
I can bend and flip, cause I am gymnastic.
I can swag and whip, cause I am bombastic.
You're really good at rapping! That was sarcastic.
Now fates you're not original or clever.
You're not even worth these words, whatsoever.
You can try and rap some more, it's whatever.
But just remember, I haven't even pulled my lever.
It will release a beast that will constantly linger.
Every time you close your eyes, it will nibble your finger.
Every time you turn your back, you'll feel the stinger.
You'll go so insane, you'll become a folk singer.
You're not thinking straight, you're fucking spun.
You said god follows you, what are you? A nun?
That would explain the virgin part, that can't be fun.
Squatting in a cucumber patch to get the dirty deed done?
Tryna hit the G-spot so hard that you squirt like a gatling-gun.
I must say this was fun, and now I hope that you will run.
Your rhymes are a pound, mine are a metric ton.
You're outdone, Sticky Bun.
Last edited by Canada; Mar 21, 2016 at 02:52 AM.