competition

My rhymes cut deep like a razor bladeLeaving haters in shock, feeling betrayedI came to sin, I came to winCutting through competition like a dorsal finThey try to offend, but I won't bendI call my girl, she's my best friendShe's a hot mama, born a bossServing me my plate, no need for sauceBut you can contemplate, all you wantHating on me, saying I'm fake, but your karma will hauntYour bitch showing me she's all thatWhile you're left with nothing, feeling flatMy metaphors and similes hit hard like a ton of bricksYour rhymes are weak, lacking in tricksI'm the best rapper alive, no doubtMy flow so sick, it'll make you pout