A Tale of Two Swiftly

With written hands and clenching fists, we’re going HAM up in this bitch; you’ll feel this flow just like an itch and spread it like a gossip snitch. Our class in session; best not ditch, we’re teaching Wesson lesson spit and shooting bullets from our lips, we’ll get you high without the trip.

Our grip onto this game is tight, we’re sipping on that special Sprite, while writing lines of lemon-lime and double timing rhyme in spite of all the haters out their barking, Little Sunshine’s, Alan Arkin’s, sparking nothing, daylight’s darken, wishing Kent would get to Clark in.

They’ll never reach that Superhero, Level Agent Double Zero, peering for a cape to save them, but their fate will not awaken. They can never feel that truth, they’ll never master flaring tooth, they’ll never snare this beating drum; they’ll never spread that red like rum.

Our time up top has just begun, we’re slow to fade but made to run, we’re here to save, but spending tons of time on fighting crime with lungs. No guns, we carry lead instead, our pencil’s wrestle with the dread, then drop it dead and call it Fred, then bed it goodnight, sleepy head.

So fed up with the fake and phony, such big talk on little ponies, blasting speak like they were Sony, homey clowning whack-a-roni. Tony Tiger, they ain’t great, we’ll frost their flakes with milky quakes of serial cerebral crates and grate their fate to never wake.

Ink stain aches we’re dropping here, while channeling our chandelier and peering down on all that’s under, this typed tornado blade of thunder. Wonder Man and Manic P., that stands for Panic, Xanax Freak, we’re dripping spit without a leak, bomb dominance is what we seek.

The weakest link, you’ll never find, in our deranged exchange of minds, our souls are cold, but hold a bind that will not break or silence, mime. We’re dropping dimes yet making cents, our sense is evil evident, our rent in Heaven, paid in full, our time in Hell is just to cool.

We school the Devil, teach him class, ice his veins from flabbergast, snatch the fire from his flask and drink it quick like we’re the Flash. Smash his cave to smithereens and smoke him like his skin was green and light him up with holy beams of cosmic caustic Listerine.

This Team of Two is all we need, blood in blood out is how we bleed, no need to ask, Assassin’s Creed, come follow us because we lead. Now freed from fear, we’re front and center, serving splendor like some vendors, venting dents of dental wreck, without a speck of disrespect.


Written by Tyler Wagner