This is the hypenist of all hype tracks.

Original rhymes, from the mind that writes about hands;
the crab-man apocalypse/I'm gettin' all the sick fans
Don't need a partner, cause the world is my straight man,
lyrics so funny it's like they're written in Comic Sans,

Pacisifist ironically entering a battle just to slap a bitch until you cry a creek, don't have a paddle,
You're gonna see, when I'm spittin' on a beat, I'm bringing hot analogies, and they all represent me.

The wombat's back, rhyming in clabtrap,
so ready your backpack, you're going home, without a chance,
it's funny but don't expect a laugh track,
It's not a sitcom, it's reality,
I'll break apart your verses, point out all your fucking fallacies,

So last time, I missed the deadline, and wasted a bunch of sick rhymes,
but I recovered just fine,
I'm writing off the dome,
from my bedroom at home,
with lyrics so profound it's like they're from a spiritual tome
YO!

Prepare yourself for a damn good fight,
I may not win, but I'll be damned if I don't try,
so here's to a fair game, may the best MC
sit upon his throne at the top of CT.

The musik runs rampant, the beats may be fat, the sound may be broken, but I'm still gonna rap, [repeat a billion times]