Lyrics: I Have The Best Words

My third rap. Excessive wordplay, gratuitous rhyme scheme, and validation-seeking flaunting, all inspired by certain Trump quotes (italicized) I found especially funny.
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I have the best words, Dubya coulda called me to save the Kurds, I’m absurdly immersed in diverse terms, my terse verse will reimburse Lazarus with a worse hearse, that’s a perverse reversal of a dispersed curse, rehearsing a coercing of life itself dispersing, a mercy killing by mere conversing.

I’m so humble, never fumble, never crumble, never stumble, but I’ll rope a dope like Rumble in the Jungle, make Foreman tumble while formin’ jumbles of conjunctive mumbles like a grumbling Dumbledore, my bumbling’s at the core an eon of lore, start a war with naught but vocal cords, slaughter more boorish florists than a forest shortage, across the world it’s the same old story: Chinese kid ascends to glory with nothing more than his guts, and an august gust of his musk at dusk -- and just the robust lust it mustered is enough to snuff injustice, like small green muppet pullin’ spaceships up ‘fore he kicks the bucket.

I know words like bigly, I could have saved Pompeii by parleying quickly, lauded Hawking -- now he’s jogging briskly, called Dorian Grey, made his portrait sickly, better get a fig leaf when I whisper glibly

So buff my rebuff sloughs off a gruff ox like I’m coughing up pop rocks, robbed Gringotts with my rough maw, my Hajj-worthy tough talk is sign of your loss, a cross between the Great Mosque and a Sino-boss, oscillating cord like a sine of floss, glossy process like a lustrous Haber-Bosch, my words nourish like ammonia, gosh, honestly a toss up between the time I quashed a rough mosh pit with a posh mitt made of nothing but lofty postulates, or when apostles flocked to my shock-and-awe wrought lips across the brainwashing I offhandedly tossed off, my panache causes nausea in life forms I’ve crossed off.

I know all the best words keep em in my pocket, like a shard of my soul held in a locket, flex my lexicon and launch a rocket, grab my vocab and God can’t stop it

You’re geriatric, I’m doin’ hat tricks, makin’ berets and bowlers out of mattress fabrics, three in a row like pseudoruminant gastrics, cause anaphylaxis with my intensive tactics, tic tacs toe to me for prophylaxis, of halitosis, I’m a maxi pad, I don’t know meiosis, my own sis insists I’m the apotheosis, so incisive my decisive dismissal incites civs to fizzle out like sizzling gristle, an abyssal vice for grizzled tribes in a missile crisis, watch as my advice ices ISIS, and I’ve made sacrifices, like making so much money I forget what strife is.