Mic Drop Mondays is finally over

52 weeks now it's time for some closure

Bars and more bars for a year I've dropped hits

So imma wrap it up with some lyrics like this

Stomp on the track and I rip it because I be utterly sick of the pitiful sight of these

Talentless charlatans rapping in filler the industry's feeding you literal tripe I'm

Committed to shifting their grip on the mic with the limitless wit and the physiotype of a

Skinny formidable kid with a mind of a killer that's quicker than visible light

I'm a fast speaker

Bean on my grind, call me a bar-ista

Ladies love the lyrics that I'm kickin' son

I get birds animated: Chicken Run

Rappers envious of all the props that I've got, they need to

Cool it, 'cos all the weekly con-tent-I-drop is

Hotter than a billion sun rays, call my

Enemies Garfield: these pussies hate Mondays

I can rhyme with words that don't even exist

Like zike and furbin and jeeble and plisp

Uh, I've made videos with discipline

I've dropped more reels than a clumsy fisherman

Quintupled my following, made them feel ill

Got rappers in a pickle, 'cos I'm the real dill

Slay the whole vernacular and cause some proper damage

'Cos I don't mean it physically the way I body language

I'mma beat the living shit right out of you chump

You'll be bandaged head to toe like your name's Mr Bump

I know how you'll feel from the illness of my rap notes

A little sick after my words like an exact quote

Every insult I spit could never miss

I'm not self-referential, but I am good at diss

So many guns, and the number increases

I'm like a jigsaw: I've got 500 pieces

Gun in each hand with suppressors on 'em thick

Two silent boomers like my parents at my gigs

Woah, never shoot a blank round, coming with the fat sound, will I will I a-stound a-stound

Yeah yeah if you wanna smack down whack clown, better better back down, better better back down

Back down back down good God, I got people screaming like Woodstock, and that

London town is my hood squad, I'm a city boy like a good dog, like

Uh, rappers are tragic, I'm cut from a different fabric

I'm earning my praise with a stick in my hand getting rid of these snakes so they call me St Patrick

All the ladies begging for my hot fluids

Your mum loves everything I've got: John Lewis

Uh, she jumped me intensely

Then she tossed my package: like she delivers for Evri

Up against my zip where that booty thrive

So back it up quick: Google Drive

My wordplay: logical, never falls flat

Your wordplay, ooh, big stretch: like a cat

Gun in your mouth, and I'm looking to squeeze

Put the toastie to your grill: now we're cooking with cheese!

Haters like my bars but they're baffled by the noise

They say my writing's fire but I haven't got the voice

"Your lyrics and your accent they are not in equivalence"

My words don't match my mouth it gives them cognitive dissonance

Fuck the lot of them, I'll eat 'em with tabasco

And when I touch the microphone it turns into a macro

Catch me cooking bars cruising down the boulevard

In a Corsa full of more toned cougars than a zumba class

How Many Games Can You Spot from these rappers?

Guns and More Guns but no shots from these rappers

Something That Thrills Me is watching them retreating

From my Fire Raps - This Is Your Captain Speaking

Uh, I'm Going On Tour across the Country

Gangsta Gent Drill-ing Fast Raps for the Money

A Massive Lad In The Club sick flow in the party

The Lyrical Strong Guy Intro to Finale

They call me an absolute masochist

They call me the rapper who's savagest

They call me the man 'cos I managed this

And I only make bangers, that's why they call me Hammer-smith