|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
ERB: Mother Goose Vs. H.P. Lovecraft
EPIC RAP BATTLES OF HISTORY!
Good Better, Best
You can't win this battle, Howard
You're about to face the nursery rhymin' mc
So give it a rest
You authored Dunwich?
You're going down bitch
Dickery, Dickery, Dare
You can't conjure up a good scare
Baby's first Mythos?
I don't even care
I'll ram my fist up your ass
And work your mouth like a puppet
You're known for giving kids nightmares
Are you even done yet?
Jack be Nimbler
I'll make this quick
All your works of horror are complete shit
You're still public domain
Leaving children drained
Are you kidding me?
I inspire horror writers and film makers
I'm expanding possibilities
Just call me H.P.
You're just an old lady
Not even a real goose
Try to cross the line with me
I'll let Cthulhu loose
I'm the macabre MC madder than the Arab
Your rhymes spat by old folks?
Well that's rather sad
Appearing in many films and TV series
And spoken of on Halloween
I'm the Gothic horror master
ERB: Brian Griffin Vs. SilkyPup
Oh, good Lord, I'm battle rapping Poochie's predecessor?
Don't waste your time on me, honey
You'll lose, that's for sure
What's the deal with you?
Where did you even come from?
You hang out with a little girl who just wants to have fun
The whole idea of your show being way too cutesy makes me sick
If I watched you for 20 seconds, you'll make me have explosive shits
My companion Stewie is a gifted evil child
Don't get me started on ShiningGlory
He's an obvious pedophile
I'll be giving it to Lois
Stealing all of Quagmire's girls
Your plans of returning to the air?
Excuse me while I hurl
I've seen you puke after you screwed Glenn's dad
A father to a troubled boy was just about as bad
You're an alcoholic hack writer without a single friend
When you were playing with Stewie in the streets
Your life came abruptly to an end
It's really sad that you're friends with a fat ass
A cocaine-addicted cop, and a failure teaching class
Face it doucheba
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!