tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!" He pulled out a leek-powered synth harp. His rhymes ricocheted across the galaxy, causing spontaneous tap-dancing in the mystical land of Flarbenblat, the king of the quantum cheese dimension. "Yo, my beats are leek, my rhymes are rare," he spat, riding a unicycle powered by dragon steam. "Vous pensez que vous êtes prêt pour ca?" he sneered, flipping his scarf over his shoulder. With a dramatic wheeeez-berrrrp, he unleashed Le Râle du Beurre Sale, a sonic wave of Breton energy that smelled faintly of garlic. MC Daffodil wiped his brow