This is a rap battle against fieken stein

got a chair made o leather and a desk of pine

that’s where I sit, while I compose my rhymes

Just because they’re antiques you wouldn’t say that I’m behind the times

Yo Mad Doc You rock My socks and underwear

Lightning storm it forms and you will take me there

Cold flesh made warm laid on the high table

throw the lever say you’re clever you know the fable

about the old man who wished to see the face of God

But unlike him your work involves a lightning rod

Give my creation life you howl madly

The villagers come sadly

it’s over all too soon

You gaze up to the moon

With a tear in your eye

The villagers cry

you will fry

You’re trapped in a tower and

the monster hates fire

they set it ablaze and

it will be your funeral pyre

(man, “fire” and “pyre”? nobody’s used that one before, no sir.)

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