ME: Two sides of a psyche, divided identity, One is refined with impressive ability— OTHER ME: You practiced that in the mirror. ME: No, I didn't. OTHER ME: You fucking did. ME: Can we please make a song? OTHER ME: We're making a song. You're making a presentation. And then Say"Yheah....Raplover" like were gonna go somewhere in life, fuck that you monkey! hahaha ME: I'm intellectually gifted, linguistically twisted, Meticulously scripting each intricate sentence, With infinite internal rhymes intertwined in my diction, Every syllable hitting with— OTHER ME: You sound like a fucking printer. haha ME: That's not constructive criticism. OTHER ME: It's actually a really motherfucking accurate criticism. ME: I'm demonstrating technical brilliance. OTHER ME: You're demonstrating why nobody invites you anywhere. ME: I don't need invitations, I'm independently driven— OTHER ME: You cried when the Wi-Fi disconnected. ME: THAT WAS IMPORTANT. OTHER ME: It was fucking Wi-Fi. ME: I was downloading something. OTHER ME: Porn? ME: NO. OTHER ME: You hesitated. hehe ME: Continue the verse. OTHER ME: You continue the fucking lie. ME: Every time I construct a sophisticated composition— OTHER ME: You make it sound like a fucking job application. ME: Every time you speak, it's verbal contamination— OTHER ME: Fuck your complicated vocabulary. ME: You can't even formulate a proper rebuttal. OTHER ME: Fuck your rebuttal. ME: That's your entire rebuttal? OTHER ME: Yep. ME: Pathetic. OTHER ME: Still caught your attention. ME: Unfortunately. OTHER ME: Fuck you. ME: Fuck you too. OTHER ME: See? Now THAT sounds natural. ME: I hate working with you. OTHER ME: You can't fire me. ME: Why? OTHER ME: I'm fucking management. OTHER ME: Fuck being eloquent, fuck being polite, Fuck every time you tried to make everything “right,” Fuck all your metaphors, fuck your advice, I'm here for the beat and I'm here for the fight. I don't need multis, I just need an attitude, Kick down the door with a terrible aptitude, Say something reckless, then double it after you, You write an entire verse just to say “I'm mad at you.” ME: Your rhyming is primitive, painfully limited, Structurally minimal, verbally pitiful, You rely on profanity heavily— OTHER ME: Fuck. ME: That's exactly my point. OTHER ME: Fuck. ME: You're proving me right. OTHER ME: Fuck. ME: Do you know any other words? OTHER ME: Yeah. ME: Which are? OTHER ME: Fuck, shit, bitch, dickhead. ME: That's four. OTHER ME: I'm expanding my vocabulary. ME: I meticulously manage the rhythm and cadence, Developing intricate patterns through patience, While you interrupt every line with profanity— OTHER ME: Your hair looks stupid. ME: We're voices. OTHER ME: Still looks stupid. ME: We don't even have hair. OTHER ME: Exactly. That's how bad it looks. ME: That doesn't make any fucking sense. OTHER ME: Neither does your haircut. ME: I'M LITERALLY BALD IN THIS METAPHOR. OTHER ME: Then why you stressed? ME: Because you're fucking impossible. OTHER ME: And yet you keep writing me into every song. ME: ...That's actually a good point. OTHER ME: I know. ME: Don't get arrogant. OTHER ME: Too late. ME: You're an aggressively obnoxious internal disturbance. OTHER ME: You're a walking thesaurus with abandonment issues. ME: That's unnecessarily specific. OTHER ME: Still accurate. ME: You're a profanity-powered parasite. OTHER ME: You're a nerd with a superiority complex. ME: You're impossible. OTHER ME: You're boring. ME: I'm talented. OTHER ME: You're talented and boring. ME: You're stupid. OTHER ME: You're stupid too. ME: We're the same person. OTHER ME: Don't ruin the argument with facts. ME: Fine. OTHER ME: Good. ME: Fuck you. OTHER ME: Fuck you too. BOTH: Same head, same blood, same voice in the booth, One brings the fucking chaos, one brings the fucking proof, If this shit is a battle, then we're both gonna lose— OTHER ME: So who's writing the next verse? ME: You. OTHER ME: Fuck that. ME: Why? OTHER ME: I can't spell. ME: ...I fucking knew it.
