Smiting my enemies

Lately, something’s been on my mind.
And might need some kind of remedy.
What I want to know is…
How does one smite an enemy?
I mean, even if I had the cojones.
Just getting in a fight is a felony.
It’s like one slap and I’m in a scrap.
Fists flailing like they’re righteous extremities.
And my blows are landing like third time’s a charm.
My mind calm.
Thinking, this is my kind of therapy.
But projectiles from hell are what help me get high and excel.
They’re the right type of devilry and what pique my interest when I subscribe to a specialty.
I mean, take battle.
There’s something beautifully simple about lobbing an axe.
It’s a natural high.
Like a DJ building the crowd and then dropping a track.
Or a detective cracking a case by just following facts.
Picture the scene.
The wooden handle starts in my palm.
I flex my arm and test the weight of the blade.
Raise it high before I let it fly.
My greatness displayed.
Weaponry ready I’m brave and won’t face demons afraid.
Cos I’ve faith in my ability.
My commitment stone cold on my goal as I displace all other imagery.
Ready to do you damage with this surprise package like you’re late for a delivery.
Cos my aim is leftfield and unorthodox.
It’ll bring you to heel and give you cause to stop.
Have you thinking that, the way I throw a tomahawk… is not a sport.
But by then, chances are you’ve been stopped and caught.
Shell-shocked and left with no last resort.
Disorientated, like you’re blinded by lens flare.
A rabbit in the headlights.
Frustrated, cos all you find are my crosshairs.
So you put on a front like you’re honestly not scared.
But whatever the situation my aim is true.
Cos I’m hungry for the kill and in a tasty mood.
You with nowhere to hide, as I push others aside.
And come at you full throttle, racing through.
So run if you want.
But my first thought will be I gotta chase this dude.
Cos one way or another you’re getting the axe.
Chest or head, you’re dead.
But you were expecting this fact.
Maybe you’ll survive and go feral.
Off grid and regretting our scrap.
And evade me for a time, as you’re an expert with maps.
So yeah, for this alone I will give you credit.
But you’re just killing time.
It’s all academic.
Cos our next encounter will be more poetic.
And less generic.
So prepare yourself.
Maybe go fetch a medic.
Cos my axe is pure lethal like Thor’s hammer.
It’ll have you tongue-tied when I let fly.
Shaking like you’ve gone and developed a forced stammer.
Your feet will freeze and lack traction.
Like an Anglo-Saxon, who first sees ships flying a Norse banner.
Then you’ll kick into gear.
But fight or flight fear will give you cause to scatter.
And run for the hills in thoughtless anger.
Cos know that I’m an elf with these weapons and I’ve brought the glamour.
And won’t desist, until I see your reality twist like Jacob’s Ladder.
So watch out when I’m armed with tools.
Or get a nasty fall cos I’m lord of the manor.
I mean, anything you try will fail.
It won’t even matter.
So go ahead.
Brandish a dagger.
Show me your swagger.
Do what you want.
I know you’re cheap glass and will breach fast.
One hit, and I bet you’ll shatter.

Words are weapons

Pen to paper his words make this man a lyrical saviour.
Phrases tight and concise, watch them taper into nothin’ but vapour.
Smoke and ashes… they’re like fallout clouds.
Watch him take a topic mighty proud and smash it.
And the way he weaves his syllables is… oh so cool, it’s fantastic.
Fans hang on his schemes like the Pied Piper leading rats upstream, they’re ecstatic.
Cos he’s match fit and fights on multiple fronts like a midfield general.
Spittin’ his ink extreme like the king of the sea.
His wordplay weaves around you like octopus tentacles.
So don’t anger him.
Or he’ll have you stumbling like a drunk that’s just learnt how to invent a fall.
You’ll clam up, forgetting rebuttals like you’ve gone and hit a wall.
Waiting your whole life to face him then choke and miss the call.
But don’t be miserable… when you’re clearly bound to fall, facing this devious wordsmith.
The speed at which he constructs his rhymes will have you baffled at times trying to decipher his verses.

And your fear, to him, is palpable.
So you play it cool, but it’s obvious to all your nervousness.
Maybe you should be more merciless, but you’re real scared.
One slip and you’ll be saying your final prayers.
Crying like a sucker come last at musical chairs.
Like a spouse playing house, caught in the middle of a sordid affair.
But who knows, maybe you’ll prevail.
You’ve been locked away for days now.
Penning a slow flow in your poetic jail.
Sweating devine rhymes, taking your time and all that entails.
Trying to act tough, but what you do is never enough.
And you just come across as pathetic and frail.
Cos right now… you’re real stale.
And all this does is make you feel pale.
But in battle you’ll get wasted.
That pasty face becoming your betrayal.
And the mountain you gotta climb to beat your nemesis, does not seem one you can easily scale.
Destiny, it would seem, would like you to fail.