Well, stab me and call me a kebab, holy cow
Looks like I got another drunk from dear Naga Sadow
Just another war-ravaged, bloodthirsty little man
so corrupted that his white hair matches sweet ol’ Witcher-san
I’ve always fretted 'bout my body being perfect, don’t I wish
But your brand new limbs may as well be grown from a petri dish
Tell me, do you collect scars like souvenirs, or are you clumsy?
Got the Versea crest burned in ya from your daddy and your mumsy
I’m the Dread Lord of a Clan that’s so Ascendant, we’re in Heaven
You’re so sensitive to criticism, it’s almost like you’re seven
How ironic, when you’re over two damn centuries old
You’re not much like your cuirass, 'cause I think you gonna fold!
Picture forests of corpses, trees burning brightly like torches. Endless war machines manned by the Legions of the Damned!
Darken spirits whisper endlessly inside my head, telling me that you’re terrible partner in the bed.
Into the breach! I’ll glass your ass like the Covenant did on planet Reach.
I’ve spilled more blood out than you can sneeze out during your monthly.
Watch as I spit out hot facts in this lame game of witty battle raps.
Speaking of battle, I was born for this, nameless with nothing but a number like a child born in Auschwitz.
Step to me and I’ll leave you broken and battered like your wife after one of your drunken fits!
My raps are like the Horizon plague, debilitating. Your raps are like your drunken stupors, hilarious.
Chest so flat, they have a society named just for you.
You’re built like a mountain, made out of the double doo.
My armour has seen better days, I’ll concede to that. But at least they’d be better at protecting what’s important than you during Horizon.
I’ve fought in so many terrible battles, but none worse than yours against the bottle.
Such a terrible leader, you actually make Mav look good.
Let’s compare scars, I’ve earned mine by protecting all that I’ve ever loved. While you lost your arm to a pink little puss rocking synthweave boots and her collective crew of loose screws.
Well, that was fun to witness - damn, who taught you how to battle?
Your flows are about as smooth and fluid as my victims’ final death rattle!
Wife? Are you kidding me? Bitch, have you done your research?
I’ve had fun with all the ladies, while your sexual game is scorched earth!
Man, Katrea must be tripping, victim of abuse and rage unfitting
Glad that she’s a near-mute so she ain’t flipping about all the times in bed you’re more miss than hitting!
What a shock that you’ve nailed me on the booze, like I haven’t heard that before -
Rather be drunk than carbon frozen or electrocuted by cabling bundles on a frigate floor!
I’ll gather all your random names and add them to my kill list
Tell me, who the f*** mistakes Sith teachings for Jedi on a holovid?
I’ll take a page right out of Major Vinga’s book - they got clout:
If you can’t handle the burning that you’ve received, THEN GET THE FRAK OUT!
Leave. Your capabilities as Rapmaster have become compromised.
Former headmaster yet unable to read the history in my jabs.
I guess they slipped past you like the toxins in your flask.
Throwing punches to this fighter so fast, they’ll leave you punch-drunk and flat on your ass.
Slept with so many women, I guess you’re quite the loose cannon.
Having been with so many people, why are you still screaming then, for Laren?
Hearing you talk is like watching my parents die, only with me wishing to have joined in.
These raps from a shameful rear-shaking princeling can’t vex me, I wonder, “Is a failure all that you can be?”
Your raps are like Oberst’s obsession with waffles, disgusting and out of place.
With a love life like your raps, flat and nonexistent.
Is it any wonder Plagueis prefers a fat seal to a drunk with no faith or zeal?
So listen here Ron, can I call you Ron? Because your voice sound more like a Jeremy than a Tavisaen.
It’s the end of match so I’ll give it to you quick, I’ll leave you laying flat like Harry in a game of Quidditch.
Our time had been great and sadly we must depart, but I have to ask. Cash or credit?