Wandbreaker (Diss)

70’s, Raw, minimal, UK rock, lo-fi, British post rock, dark, heavy, loud, art rock, experimental rock, proto-punk, psychedelic rock, and avant-pop

V4.5

You ain’t cryptic you just diaper shit, rhymes from a Buzzfeed list,
Only time you spark is when the vape pen hissed.
You ’bout as street as an Ikea shelf,
Rappin’ with action figures propped behind you for self help.
Put that plush Gandalf down, you fuckin’ dweeb,
Your whole fanbase click once then flee like your pink haired twink.

You went from dancehall to being a rapper 
Bitch, you need to quit,
While you writin’ Hogwarts bars with a butterbeer drip.
Your beard look like mildew, your flow look like split ends,
Thirty years old and you still rhyme like pretend friends.
Talkin’ “Roid Rage”? Bitch, I’m in real fights,
You rap on a soy stage screamin’ Yoda songs into fleshlights.
I train in MMA, you cosplay in fat man capes,
You couldn’t body me with a 10-gauge at point blank.

I’ll shove a mic down your throat ’til you cough up Fruit Loops,
While your mama massages your ego in elf boots.
I don’t duck fades I deliver ’em gift-wrapped,
Your whole style smells like unused gym wraps.
Go play Quidditch with your clique of divorced lames,
You ain’t a threat just on a high horse from when you snort cane.
Your rhymes ain’t heavy they hollow with forced names,
I’ll piss on your lore like a dog with four fangs.

Your comments section’s drier than your sex life,
You watch like a cuck while dudes rotisserie your ex-wife.
That bitch DM’d me her tit pics on the sneak,
Said you bust quick and cried in Elvish for a week.
I nutted on her face, made a ring of white runes,
Then made her sing my verse like a hymn from Hyrule.
You a fuckin’ disgrace, tryin’ to cyber-slap a god,
I’ll uppercut your mic through your chest like I was General Zod.
You the type to get banned from Twitch for softcore,
You rap with an umbrella in one hand and a rusted pawn sword.

Your flow’s malnourished like your balls, shriveled and gray,
I drop punchlines that bench-press your weak shit any time of day.
You play wizard I play executioner grim,
Stick your wand in your ass, let the Force flow within.
Now run, coward your saga’s past due,
Every diss you drop feels like the end of Star Wars part 2.

You said I’m juiced? Then come test the beef,
I’ll fold your weak-ass lyrics like hotel sheets.
You won’t catch a fade you’ll catch an STD,
From that hooker you summoned in your wizard OC.
I don’t play wizard games I just slay charades,
You a fruity-ass rapper with a strawberry vape grenade.

So keep yellin’ Yoda “Mmm! Dope raps you lack!”
While I bust through your Hobbit hole and clap your track.
You ain’t MF DOOM you MF’d soon,
Got exiled from the throne before your wand even bloomed.

3031/7500

Your cosplay outfit smells like nut sweat and glue sticks, You built your whole persona outta butt jokes and broomsticks. Ain’t no Force in your rap, you’re gettin’ German suplexed You Darth Vapor, gettin’ split in half like a duplex. You’re a robed-up pansy ass, tryna flex like a Sith, But you sound like your mic’s between your grandmother’s tits. “Master of Myth”? You a bastard of shit, Leakin’ RuPaul cosplay juice from them reused skits. You ain’t cryptic you just diaper shit, rhymes from a Buzzfeed list, Only time you spark is when the vape pen hissed. You ’bout as street as an Ikea shelf, Rappin’ with action figures propped behind you for self help. Put that plush Gandalf down, you fuckin’ dweeb, Your whole fanbase click once then flee like your pink haired twink. You went from dancehall to being a rapper Bitch, you need to quit, While you writin’ Hogwarts bars with a butterbeer drip. Your beard look like mildew, your flow look like split ends, Thirty years old and you still rhyme like pretend friends. Talkin’ “Roid Rage”? Bitch, I’m in real fights, You rap on a soy stage screamin’ Yoda songs into fleshlights. I train in MMA, you cosplay in fat man capes, You couldn’t body me with a 10-gauge at point blank. I’ll shove a mic down your throat ’til you cough up Fruit Loops, While your mama massages your ego in elf boots. I don’t duck fades I deliver ’em gift-wrapped, Your whole style smells like unused gym wraps. Go play Quidditch with your clique of divorced lames, You ain’t a threat just on a high horse from when you snort cane. Your rhymes ain’t heavy they hollow with forced names, I’ll piss on your lore like a dog with four fangs. Your comments section’s drier than your sex life, You watch like a cuck while dudes rotisserie your ex-wife. That bitch DM’d me her tit pics on the sneak, Said you bust quick and cried in Elvish for a week. I nutted on her face, made a ring of white runes, Then made her sing my verse like a hymn from Hyrule. You a fuckin’ disgrace, tryin’ to cyber-slap a god, I’ll uppercut your mic through your chest like I was General Zod. You the type to get banned from Twitch for softcore, You rap with an umbrella in one hand and a rusted pawn sword. Your flow’s malnourished like your balls, shriveled and gray, I drop punchlines that bench-press your weak shit any time of day. You play wizard I play executioner grim, Stick your wand in your ass, let the Force flow within. Now run, coward your saga’s past due, Every diss you drop feels like the end of Star Wars part 2. You said I’m juiced? Then come test the beef, I’ll fold your weak-ass lyrics like hotel sheets. You won’t catch a fade you’ll catch an STD, From that hooker you summoned in your wizard OC. I don’t play wizard games I just slay charades, You a fruity-ass rapper with a strawberry vape grenade. So keep yellin’ Yoda “Mmm! Dope raps you lack!” While I bust through your Hobbit hole and clap your track. You ain’t MF DOOM you MF’d soon, Got exiled from the throne before your wand even bloomed.

0/500