Of course,

It’ll ruffle your feathers a bit,

To hear someone talk outside their neck,

As if they have ever raised themselves or a couple of storm-wrecking jits.

Could you understand,

How the soccer ball fits so close to my hand?

A joke that’s not meant to expand,

but a joke that’s meant to land.

The error in your fictitious fable,

Is not where we compete,

But that’s why with one alleged comment,

You drew an enemy out of wheat.

You gathered your crops or your rumors combined,

And felt it was to be your fertilizer or every day water.

Oh my and how it flys.

You put words to ground like they would never see the light of day,

or reach the very noise you wanted to create.

Silly diamond,

even I know pickles don’t grow from a bush in the ground.

What will make your picture-less enemy really stick,

As if you were to find another rotten tomato to pick.

For an enemy out of clay is just as good as one harvested.

You turn a tall tale into addiction,

then only I will be in recovery.

I would say, laddie.

Pick on someone your own size,

but the shoe does fit,

And I could take on a couple of hits,

or a single distribution diss.