oh no

Kangorg Devours the Field” [Verse 1] Kangorg in a canopic jar of charred opponents’ cartilage, Harvesting the market where the carcasses are arguments, Target-marked artisans—he partitions their apartments in Half with a hack of a laugh, like a harlequin of darkness Starving for a bar to bend—arcane and mathematically Carved into the marrow of a parable unraveling, Catalyst of cannibal calculus, he’s cataloguing calories From amateurs embalmed in their arrogance and apathy Palate is palatial—paladin of palate raids, Salivating savagely, he’s stacking up the accolades, Cadavers in the cabinet are categorized by battle grade, Rattling the lattice of the average with a rapid blade Grammar like a hammer to the mandible of mannequins, Damaging the damage done by handling them as mandarin— Panicking, they plan again, vanish in the panopticon, Kangorg calmly chomping on the consonants they camped upon [Hook] He don’t compete, he consumes— Leaves a beat in a tomb, resumes feeding the room, Every MC is a meal when he’s freed from the womb, Kangorg eat the competition—ain’t no seat at the table, just a seat in the spoon [Verse 2] Metaphor predator, editor of edible rhetoric, Ingesting every sedative sedition they set in it, Venom in the verbiage, verging on irreverent elegance, Skeletons are evidence embedded in his sediment Threading through the tenement of tentative technicians, He’s etching every sentence with a serrated intention, Ascended from a sentient resentment of conventions, Now he’s venting every tension with a menacing digestion It’s a festival of flesh for the best of the lessers, He compresses every measure into pressurized pressure, A professor of the lesser-known methods of message, Where the lesson is: ingest ‘em, leave ‘em etched in the ledger Competitive? Never—he’s a predator specimen, The rhetoric is gelatin, he sets it then he sever it, Repetitive skeletons get exoskeleton edits when Kangorg gets to stepping in—devouring development [Hook] He don’t compete, he consumes— Leaves a beat in a tomb, resumes feeding the room, Every MC is a meal when he’s freed from the womb, Kangorg eat the competition—ain’t no seat at the table, just a seat in the spoon [Verse 3] Obsidian omnivore orbiting orphaned oratories, Offering auditory autopsies—awkward for the ordinary, More than morbid—he’s morphing the corpses into choreography, Fork in a forcefield—he’s forcing the form into forgeries Gorging on gorgeous distortions of dormant performers, Torching the quorum, enforcing the war of the words in him, According to lore, he was born in a storm of conformity, Tore it apart and absorbed every norm into normalcy A normal beast? Nah—an anomaly gnawing the novice, A cosmically chronic demolisher carving a carcass, A starved archivist harvesting arteries, charting the carcass— Part of the art is the part where he parts you regardless Kangorg—name ring heavy in the echo chamber, Every angle danger when he angles language, Mangled remains of the same old cadence, He ate the game whole—now the plate’s just vacant [Outro Hook] He don’t compete—he concludes— Every peak he consumes, every weakling removed, When the beat meet doom, he’s the teeth in the groove, Kangorg ate the competition… now he’s eating the booth