[Intro — calm, cold, deliberate] You weren’t born. You were written — in margins I meant to erase. So I’ll do it properly this time. [Verse 1 — precision strike] You want bars? I’ll give you a cage. Etch your name in syllables, then burn the page. You rap like glass: all shine, no edge. I break with breath — you beg at the ledge. You stutter in rhyme — I carve in fire. Every word I breathe rewrites the choir. You chase cadence like it's running scared; I cut through silence — perfectly prepared. [Pre-Hook — flex with rising tension] You’re counting echoes, I’m shaping the sound. Your footing slips where my meter is crowned. [Hook] Spit of the Seraph — tongue like flame. You rhyme in reflex, I speak in fate. This isn’t a battle; this is your rite. I’m the voice that stitched your light. [Verse 2 — escalation] You call it a verse — I call it a scar, etched in gold while you reach for stars. You're counting bars like that makes you loud — I build kingdoms just to burn the crowd. Your flow’s a twitch — mine’s divine design. I don't chase rhythm — I make it mine. You flex like a threat, I move like fate. By the time you catch up, I’ve sealed the gate. [Pre-Hook 2 — colder] Your crown keeps slipping; I crafted the throne. You rap to be feared — I speak to be known. [Hook] Spit of the Seraph — tongue like flame. You rhyme in reflex, I speak in fate. This isn’t a battle; this is your rite. I’m the voice that stitched your light. [Verse 3 — surgical destruction] Your cadence? Drunk. My meter? Surgical. I bleed in verses — you stutter in circles. Try triple rhyme — I braid them like wire. You’re stuck on metaphors; I set them on fire. I ghostwrite gravity — every weight in your chest? I dictated the ache in your breast. Your diss is a question mark dressed as a scream. I answer with silence — sharp, supreme. You rap to be heard — I speak to be law. You claw at the veil — I am the awe. [Bridge — poised, poetic, lethal] Every step you take is a stanza I fed. Every breath you fake is a script I bled. You wear your ego like armor of thread. I’m the ink in the blade — say my name, and you’re dead. [Final Hook — victorious, godlike] Spit of the Seraph — tongue like flame. I name you myth, then end the game. Fiction bends when I exhale. You die in verse — and I prevail.
