document.write('<center style="line-height:18px;color:#663300; font-variant: normal;font-weight: lighter; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:medium;"><h2>battle axe</h2>Here I am --<br>stepping to you with a<br>twelve-gauge lyrically, <br>stomping out your<br>“man, she can’t blow!” skepticism<br>with my booty-kicking<br>high-heeled shoes on a cocksure foot<br>to put an inkling in your head. <br><br>I imbibe the lyrical juice<br>that kicks like woodroot kisses<br>goldenseal for your fancy. <br>I’m not a baby anymore, see, <br>I’m just a pleasure-giver<br>stacked with little ditties that<br>make you sweat oceans like kisses<br>from that sweet-lipped brotha<br>whose cedarwood and juniper scent<br>penetrates your nasal cavity.<br>I got flow like streams<br>with a strictly coherent babble<br>swilling a siren song for all those<br>poets of the world who try to horde the word<br>why not tip your hat and share the cipher, but<br>some misguided egos click like legos<br>and move in small circles like<br>high-school popularity --<br>assassinating my lines<br>living in dread of being toppled<br>from imaginary poetic kingdoms. <br>If that is how you vibe, <br>stand as tall as trees, <br>‘cause one day you will be fell<br>by your own poetic axe<br>and selfishness will lodge<br>deep within your throat leaving your poetry<br>gasping for new life breathed through the<br>plagiarized styles of us outcast versifiers. <br><br>Before you cut off my limbs<br>try to recognize that ink flows through my veins, <br>and I will continue to pack my lip<br>with that old schtick called POWER<br> that’s my unwavering vow… <br> HOW U LIKE ME NOW?!</center>')