But you’re more like a jester with oversized rags.  

You step to the mic, but your skills are a joke,  

Every line that you drop is as bland as a cloak.

Your roasts are so weak, they could use some repairs,  

You’re flailing and failing, a hot mess of errors.  

Your insults are tired, they’re worn and they’re old,  

Like a broken-down record that’s lost all its gold.

So sit down and hush, let the real ones take stage,  

Your rhymes are as stale as a bird in a cage.  

Keep dreaming you’re clever, just don’t get too bold,  

Because with each passing moment, your world gets cold.