Fine Line

I’m a scatterbrained, mentally unhinged female—

I’m in the game, and since I’ve usually managed to shock even corpses, my rhymes are indescribable—so potent that even the Devil himself has taken notice.

No one can escape me; into the most well-trodden places, I hurl brazen insults like lead bullets—

Blasting through shitty, unenthusiastic villages.

I am emotionally unbalanced; swayed by my feelings and thoughts, I’ve veered off course. I’ve started composing verses on tragedies worthy of *Faust*—though I won’t sugarcoat those tragedies overnight, for the truth of what knocks people flat—

Is that my rhyme scheme turns deadly the moment I start loudly roasting you on the fly.

I need to prove who can take the bigger shit.

I think I should probably drink more—you know? Just remember: you’ve crossed paths with the very woman who gets under your skin—the one who verbally tears you a new one. And now? Now I’m about to mentally obliterate you.

Your insults affect me only peripherally.

You’re effectively retired—rendered obsolete by my defense—once I lay out the honest truth.

I effortlessly churn out rhymes, then simply lie down and sleep. I’m not the type to rack my brains over it—

Forget counting sheep; instead, I quietly delight in twisting the meaning of words while I wait for your counter-attack.

Fine, fine rhymes—live the moment

Oh

Fine, fine rhymes—live the moment

Oh

I’d even catch lightning in a bottle; I leave homophobes in the dust and put racists in my pocket, because I just love mopping the floor with dimwits.

And getting pissed off by more than three hookers.

Snitch—I’d even break a racist bitch inside her very coffin, for sure; and now I’ve reached the point where I’m talking about doing some serious house-cleaning.

Because with me, even narcotics have no effect.

Go ahead, call me a proud autistic bitch myself.

I trust my instincts—

and the crap Kurz has been spouting lately is pure rubbish.

And I’m sickened by the garbage that fish-face keeps promising.

I’ll cast the first stone while living in a glass house, because I want out—no wonder I snap and go off, while also creating space for the masses to go wild with excitement.

What matters is what I make of it—but does it actually fit in my fanny pack?

I’ll use a rhyme, a pen, and some paper to turn all this into a ruckus.

While a skilled performer relies on the theatrics of Klaus Kinski, and a Rastafarian chews through heaps of green herb, and Charlie Sheen guzzles whiskey by the gallon—I’m the one who builds a creative home right out of that very chaos.

I’ve always been an outsider—collecting hobbies and using my intellect; my life has turned upside down, but getting wasted on weed or booze? No way! That would be seriously messed up.

The garbage that spews out of me...

It reveals the horror, and you’re instantly transfixed.

Expand my horizons—what else is there? When I rhyme, it’s worse than when Chuck Norris shows up.

Fucked up—yeah, I smoke that dank shit like weed, pronto; I put my faith in the vapor and skillfully drown myself in the high.

Even if life gets really tough—

And on top of that, you’re totally screwed—face life with cunning; shove your problems into a coffin, no matter how nasty they are.

Just tell yourself: "I can handle this."

This time, I’m the hawk pissing on your grave, and soaring through emotions is my catharsis.

No problem is strong enough to beat me into an early grave.

Because I do have a chance.