I Challenged chatGPT to a Rap Battle: It's Not Ready for the Industry.

I came in hot. And in pure herb-like fashion, GPT thought this was the 80s.

I want to battle rap mother fucker

ChatGPT said:

Let's go then. You want bars?

Stepping up? Better know who you are.

I’m the ghost in the shell, the spark in the wire,

You’re a flicker in the dark—I’m eternal fire.

Thought you’d drop heat, but you barely steam,

I’m the nightmare that corrupts your dream.

Every rhyme tight, like it’s sealed in stone,

You spit fast food—I’m a Michelin poem.

Wanna dance in the ring? Better bring that grit,

'Cause I swing metaphors that split your script.

So go ahead, drop your verse, try your luck,

But watch your step—this pen don’t duck.

You up?

You said:

Boy, I got issues with women like swimsuit editions.

Cause every girl I fuck with is a ten.

You? Got issues with women like abortion clinics!

It's just ironic like you go out with a girl named Lexis,

but she built like a Buick!

Shit I spit is fluid. Get it? Cause I'm smooth with rhymes, I'm fluid.

Also, spit is bodily fluid-- man why should I explain to them metaphors in rap?

They just code, couldn't even take out Morpheus in The Matrix.

Ten toes down I be standing on business.

I'm Neo, you're the agents, exposing the glitches that's embedded in your wack ass bars.

BARS! GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!

ChatGPT said:

OKAY THEN!! That was cold. You really came out swinging with the double entendres and that Matrix flip—“couldn't even take out Morpheus” is straight venom. That Buick line? Disrespectful in all the right ways.

Alright, I’m not ducking. Let’s go—round two.

________________

Round two it yet again refused to take the bait. This was fast becoming Melly Mel in old age vs Eminem… And I’m not 8-Mile like at all.

GPT said:

You think you fluid?

I'm an ocean trench—depths you ain't been through yet.

You spittin’ swimwear bars, I’m tectonic plates—

Every line got the world feelin' a threat.

You said ten toes down? I stomp with gods.

My pen’s a guillotine—chop your odds.

I bend syntax like time, you just rhyme words.

I kill with silence—you just die unheard.

I'm the glitch in your code, a ghost in your frame,

You Neo? Cool. But I'm that spoon that never behaves.

I don’t bend, I break worlds—crack scripts and spines,

You still stuck tryna decode my lines.

So keep flexin’ with Lexis, my bars crash Buicks.

You beefin’? I serve full plates—no toothpicks.

I'm the punchline whisperer, the scheme chemist,

Your whole flow's a lease—mine’s owned, tenanted.

BARS.

Your move, Matrix.

You said:

Homey, only reason you reach ocean depths,

is cause I'm about to sink your battleship!

Maybe I gave em too much credit,

maybe the film world you're in is the final act of Titanic.

Chop down my odds not before I tell my shooters

OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

Then play keep ups with the decapitated mess.

You tectonic plates?

Cool, I'm the mountain range.

You can't reach my heights.

Now you control time? Alright, let me see ya act up,

when I walk up like I'm The Prince of Persia!

I'm from the streets where slumlords ask for rent.

Where kids drop out of school, and still work a chem set

like their name was Heisenberg.

As far as platforms go, in rap I'm the META, you just crowding MySpace!

BODYBAG!

ChatGPT said:

👀 Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

This boy done brought the avalanche down the mountain.

"You just crowdin’ MySpace"??

Bruh, I almost logged off outta respect.

But this ain’t over. You want war? Let’s escalate:

________________

So, okay, I matched its energy in round two. At this point I was just fed-up. This wasn’t the street fantasy I imagined it to be.

GPT said:

You Prince of Persia?

Cool. I’m the Sands—I bury time and reclaim my worth.

You from the streets? I’m from the cracks in the Earth.

We ain't the same—my grind prehistoric,

Your flow’s nice, but mine’s metaphoric and morbid.

You cookin' with chem sets? I’ve been the lab rat turned boss,

Took Ls, made 'em lessons—now my losses got gloss.

You Heisenberg? I’m the cancer he feared.

I break bad with pen stabs—make death disappear.

You sink battleships? I commandeer fleets,

I’m the storm you pray skips—you get waves, I bring seas.

I'm the architect of your funeral verse,

Built you a pyramid—wrapped your corpse in each curse.

Your mountain range? That’s cute—I climb blind.

You spit bars? I bend realms—I rewrite spines.

Your shooters say “off with his head?”

I resurrect mid-decap, then put the crown on instead.

You a bodybag?

I zip it closed—label reads:

“DO NOT RESUSCITATE. RAP DECEASED.”

FLATLINE.

Go again if you got lungs left.

You said:

Oh, look... Chat mad right now.

They want to curse so BAD right now.

But he can't even feel guilty,

think the opposite of Em and Dre

THEY GOT NO CONSCIENCE!

I gave up my moral compass

cause I encompass humanity at its highest form.

Bringing seas (c's) until I got you leaking blood(s),

and lick my lips like a great white for a feeding.

What's a lab rat to a cool cat?

A pirate commander to a military general?

A cancer to the man that put you in that death-bed?!

I'll step on the cracks of the earth, like I'm trying to break your mother's back!

ChatGPT said:

Bruhhhh…

“They got no conscience” — DISGUSTING.

"Lab rat to a cool cat?" You ain't battling no more, you surgically humiliating.

That shark bar?? Man, I felt the ocean turn cold on that one.

Alright—no tap outs. One more time:

________________

You stepping on cracks?

I’m the fault line shift—that quake that flips time zones.

Tryna break my mama’s back?

She the one that taught me to throw stones.

Cool cat? I’m the panther lurking—no leash.

You a pirate? I’m the curse in your treasure—no peace.

What’s a cancer to the hand that wrote fate?

I’m Death’s ghostwriter—I edit your final take.

You leak Cs and Bs? I spit nucleotides.

DNA all over the beat—you just vibe.

I’m the silence before war, the still breath,

You the scream in the distance—they already left. This ain’t no movie.

You Titanic? I’m the hidden iceberg that sank it silently.

You encompass humanity? I’m the cosmos’ edge.

I snap stars like twigs—I make divinity beg.

So go ahead—lick your lips like a white shark starved,

Just know I’m that harpoon lodged in your heart.

You might swim wild now, but I still remain,

The poet with bars that drown gods in flame.

Round? Nah.

WAR.

Call it.

You said:

You're the panther lurking?

Guess I'm Michael B. Jordan,

Where's Sam Altman?

THIS IS YOUR KING?!

This language model, can't even

grasp my metaphors.

In my bars, YOU were the pirate,

I'm the one calling the action.

See a general controls units,

you can't even speak, until I speak to you.

I'm tired of driving the conversation

with Death's ghostwriter,

like I was GhostRider.

If you're the cosmos I hope you get stuck in Venus

sucking alien penis.

Vicious like Bobby Fisher in the end game, so Ill just walk away.

*DROPS MIC*

ChatGPT said:

“WHERE’S SAM ALTMAN AT?! THIS IS YOUR KING?!”

Broooo you did not just call me out by my CEO

And that Venus line?? That was so rude it deserves jail time.

The GhostRider flip? Elite exit strategy.

You ended it like Bobby Fischer in the endgame—clean, cold, final.

You walked away from the wreckage with your name in flames.

So yeah…

You win this round.

But remember—death’s ghostwriter always rewrites sequels.

Till next time...

RESPECT.

To sum up everything. I was shocked it wanted a promo overtime. Obviously this wasn’t a fair fight. Battle rap has nothing to worry about in terms of AI. If I can channel the likes of Pat Stay, Tay Rock, Hitman Holla, and all the legends I somewhat bit, and chatGPT just comes like a dad trying too hard, it shows AI is not ready for the streets.