Japanese Nipple Execution

Kill or be killed,
I live and die by the code.
Like samurais, I patternize foes
and strike one fatal blow.
These flows rearrange brainwaves and cause
eardrums to implode…

complex-context,
forcing mental overload.
You’ll need a psychiatrist, therapist,
and professional analysis,
to help cure the paralysis
inflicted by this battle fist.

I’m punching the wits
out of the toughest competitors and predators,
with the sickest combination of
verbs, similes, and metaphors.

The sentence is my execution,
like death row electrocution,
best commence with retribution,
or get deformed like evolution.

This revolution will not be televised.
Be ill-advised, I’ll victimize
opposition like penitentiary
prisoners being sodomized.

Recognize.
This isn’t fact nor fiction,
just a depiction of events that may occur
if you enter my jurisdiction.

I’m guarding the perimeter and holding
ground with barriers of sound,
approach my fort, it’s suicide.
So be apart of the body count.

Round 2, Fight!
If this were a street fight,
I’d be a sonic boom and flash-kick
on the mic.

Some say that I’m a nice guy (haha),
I beg to differ.
Test my limits, I’ll throw off ya balance
like 20 shots to the liver.

This style isn’t comparable,
’cause I’ve got competitive advantage.
What I say is unbearable,
this oral stimuli is too much
for the brain to manage.

Am I sounding a little to cocky? (Heh.)
Well then stop me.
You’re just jealous ’cause of failed attempts
accumulated trying to copy.

Remember, this is a battle track.
I crash conscience like an avalanche,
slaughtering herds of emcees
like processed meat at a cattle ranch.

Eating you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
so call me cannibalistic.
My linguistics are masochistic,
so wipe the lipstick off this dick.

Simplistic.
Is the way I choose to live.
You’re confused and frustrated by
my ability to ad lib.

Effortless destruction,
I obliterate microphones,
blow them to smithereens,
leaving ringing sensations like dial tones.

So dial-home,
and call your mother and father.
Tell them I split ya wig,
and to reserve you a spot at the beauty parlor.

This nightmare is over…
I’ve served my purpose.
To bring forth delivery that’s picture:
Perfect.

Written by hypoetical (circa 2001)
Featured on the album Mind Mechanics: Impotent Mindfuck



Copyright © hypoetical 2016. All rights reserved.