wordsmithery: the time-delayed rap battle

You don't have to be from 8 Mile or Inglewood to lay down a phat rhyme. You don't even need to own a gat, a scraper, or a wave cap. All you need is the desire to stop a chump in his tracks when he steps to you. While fist fights might be cool, they are simply impractical on a regular basis. The rhyme, as they say, is mightier than the shank.

Enter the time-delayed rap battle. This is for the wordsmiths who aren't the lyrical Mario Andrettis on the Momo, but are capable of a bit more than, "Come at me bro/Yo momma's a ho!" The preferred arena for the time-delayed rap battle is the email listserv. It's not as though you're serving up linguistic lashings on stage with a mic in your hand, but the audience is real, and anyone can push send at any time. The key is that you're not actually freestyling; the creativity has time to marinate, the disses are premeditated and carefully crafted.

The following are a few verses that I threw out to a World Cup Pick'em listserv earlier this summer. My bracket was named "Roberto Baggio's Rat Tail." I ended up losing pretty badly, but really, victory was mine because my rhymes were sick. Check it:

Sent out after I secured my first correct pick:

That's one correct pick for Roberto Baggio's Rat Tail,
A hundred eighty-two more points comin' cuz I can nat fail.
If you think you can defend me, here's the advice I'm givin' ya:
Give up. Cuz Im bout ta break you like Drogba's tibia.

I pick winners and get chicken dinners while you stay starvin',
I'd throw you my leftovers but, fools, you ain't desarvin'.
Cuz I'm harder than Zidane's forehead, a swift kick to ya pants,
Watch me bicycle kick ya balls like I was Armstrong, Lance.

Sent these stanzas out after a getting into the lead:

With twice Kaka' 's speed I left you spinnin' around,
My raps awe some--your mouth can't make a sound.
Have a glass of water son, better yet, have sixteen,
Gonna need to hydrate the way you try to pick teams.

My rhymes so fresh I ain't need no preservatives
This listserv's a yearbook, and I'm handin' out superlatives:
Biggest poser, worst picks, lowest street credibility,
I want to see some come-backs, 'stead y'all people is killin' me.

To hang with me you'll need to cheat like T. Henry,
I'm calling handball on your girlfriend as she's cuppin' on me.
My moves like Cristiano, my style so pleasurable,
I'm BP in the Gulf: my flow is simply immeasurable.

"Write the Future" says Nike but y'all are stuck in the past,
I flux through time like Deloreans when I step on the gas.
Stay off the field and the highway when I'm 'hind the wheel
I spit fire like red cards--but this ain't a game, it's REAL.

I'm just hoping to whet your appetite and maybe inspire some budding lyricists out there. Who knows? Maybe the next great time-delayed rap battle will happen right here. Starting right now. On this blog.