Illmaculate vs. Rone (Title Match) lyrics

[Round 1: Rone]
I have orchestrated this beautifully, like I was intricate on strings with it
Co-Rone-ation day, from my Simba sh*t to the king of this
Today I think like a king; it’s in my bones, in my speech
Today I eat like a king; I’m thinkin' bon appetit
It’s been six months, what glory did you bring home to the league?
You ain’t even seize the throne; that crown was thrown at your feet
What is the title to you? Oh, what, now you’re a star?
No, you’re still broke, bummy, scrounging for rounds at the bar
So I consider the term “title” not sounding so hard
When you’ll never have a title on a house or a car
See, you never rap enough piff to pack up the joint
And so they made a call to Rone (Calderon) to back up the point
See we could battle for one hour. We could do a one-rounder
You lost the title after one match; that’s a short reign (rain) like a sun shower
You think like such a pus*y...... whenever you make a verse
You’re so scared of what someone else might say, so you try to say it first
Well I predict that you’ll predict what I do in this match
And you’ll get done like the last prophet (Prophit) that I threw in the trash
Boy thinks that he’s a psychic, but no one here’s believing him
It’s funny he’s an extra small but he thinks that he’s a medium
But this pus*y smells fishy
Is that salmon or albacore?
Is he mackerel or just gutted? He can’t get a call back from Macklemore
b*tch all my dogs loyal, like DJ Khaled or a Labrador;
I’m in El Salvador, dodging bullsh*t off the cape just like a matador
b*tch, I’m just getting started; this is salad course
You’re mad trash like a bag full of apple cores
Oh he ain’t catch it? Who the f*ck he, Nelson Agholor?
If he the plug, I’ll rip him out by the power cord
You think you could rap, but my flow’s so disgustin'
Stumpman, stumpman, stumpman, you like five foot nothin'
Since I brought my boys here I think I might jump him; no
Since he this tall, damn, I think that I could jump him; whoa
You live off apology checks you get ‘cause you’re a eighth Native American
That means we’re payin' you, to shut the f*ck up and not complain ‘bout your heritage
And that’s the only checks you get, the only income that you draw
So if my people hadn’t killed your people, you would get no money at all
I mean, no hood booger want to boogie with you
No neighbor got any sugar to use
I mean, Saurus gets ten million times more pus*y than you and look at the dude
And I bet those walls in the friend zone steep
Twin b*tches suck a nut for a Benzo each
You a snitch and a broke little S.O.B
I bet the pink slip on any car that Greg Poe lease (police)
Wait. Any bar that Ill conceived is ill-conceived
It’s no illusion; Ill losing. This the guillotine
It’s incredible; I’m what makes Ill edge-able
The fact that he can’t read me, I feel like like I’m illegible
But, you braggin' ‘bout smoking weed in Oregon, I said that isn’t even Ill, is it?
Wait, smoking weed in Oregon; that isn’t even illicit
Boy, I pass models coke on glass-bottom boats
This some sacrificial slaughter, it’s the lamb vers’ the G.O.A.T
And I get he’s your bro and that you think that he’s dope
But do me a favor: get Bigg K’s di*k out your throat
I mean, in the Caustic battle, you have his whole D in your mouthpiece
You all over Kenny’s nuts like Stevie Janowski
You takin' trips, I make your b*tch sit and leave me a house key
Then come p*ss on the rug like the scene from Lebowski
World Dom One, we were faded off Canadian liquor
Saurus had a b*tch in his room; trying to say he could hit her
But he declined, when he ain’t even have to pay for the stripper
So for thinkin' Ill is straight (illustrate), well, what, I got to paint you a picture?
World Dom Two, you blackout wrestled Dirtbag Dan
The full story is that Dirt merked that man
At the hotel that night, he choked you out twice
I’m used to your rounds putting me to sleep, well now you know what that’s like
Check, Illmac tried to rush him, right? Dan got him mummified
He couldn’t have put you to sleep faster with warm milk and a lullaby
So talk sh*t when I’m passin' by you and it’s not a thing to pacify you
And if you sleep on any of my sh*t tonight, then I’m lookin' for Dan behind you
[Round 1: Illmaculate]
He mentioned my homie from Seattle, which reminds me
There’s just something wrong about you
To the point Macklemore might make a song about you
I mean, I’ll show you how to deliver the frees and get sick in the ring
He said The Saurus gets more pus*y and he might be spittin' the frees
But that’s fitting
You know why that that’s fitting to me?
‘Cause you’re getting loose
And this is the biggest pus*y that’s every been given to me
All right, look, straight to it
I been the champ, before the title or trophy
Get your wifey to blow me, but I don’t chase birds; that’s for Wile E. Coyote
My fam is full of animals like I was Mowgli
They won’t be happy ’til his head in a box: (Bing,) smiley emoji
Get socked in the ring, like I’m Mick Foley minus the goatee
You’d get ate (eight) with a twenty-four, but I’m retiring Roney
With a seasoned sixteen; sh*t remind me of Kobe
I don’t play in the ring
Yo, you got no bars, like a parolee
You got no bars, like a parolee
I said it twice; that’s okay, cause I guaranteed to pepper Roney
Hold up. No bars, like a parolee
It doesn’t matter; you know why?
I’ll get a body out of nowhere like Kylie and Khloe
Grimey, I’ll treat Roney like a entree served warm
And never fight clean, I was always dirt poor
I rep the North West like Kanye’s first-born
You couldn’t ride the wave with Beyonce’s surfboard
Surfboard...
Roney’s music? Nerdcore
You are a joke
This motherf*cker is a shtick
Him and his friends get together and punch each other in the di*k
You are a clown, I guess college life made them closer
They’re like, “party’s on, bro.” Invite some ladies over
But don’t pass out, these guys could play the joker
They shave each other’s eyebrows and draw di*ks on their faces
While they’re wide awake and sober
You are a cornball
You’re battle rap for teeny boppers, expose the gimmicks
Wave riders: motion sickness
I mean, we might be close in pigment, but the approach is different
You, “white kid raps fast”, Mac Lethal, all viral, so suspicious
I mean, why? Old traditions? Wholesome image?
It’s simple; you’re a symbol of their own existence
Clothes and skin, sh*t
They look at you, see a mirror, don’t even know the difference
Just can’t get Past his Presence. Oh, so simplistic
They think he’s the Future ‘cause he reflects their lives like the Ghosts of Christmas
You’re battle rap for dummies, for the casual fan
Get rocked; whip him with my spatula hand since he a flash in the pan
That’s just the tip of the iceberg; the Titanic get slammed
Put us in the same boat, I’ll split you like a catamaran
If my name’s at stake (steak), I got cattle to brand
b*tch, I’m a legend, and I still (steel) open doors, like a battering ram
You a virus; I’ll penicillin ya
There’s never been a ceilin' to my writing so my pen is sealing ya
Spiteful, I bet it’s killing ya
Thirsty, riding on genitalia
Such a desperate for attention whore, where he’s from is a metaphor
Be mindful, his city’s telling ya
He’d probably swap AIDS with Tom Hanks just to go viral in Philadelphia
See, you’re just here to entertain, so you’re feeling like the cash crop
But that little bit of fame dries up when the laughs stop
So you can have them views, ‘cause I’ll be here when your fans not
I’ll hold down the champ slot
He can be the mascot
[Round 2: Rone]
You said I could be the mascot, but no one believes you
If it wasn’t for the stage, no one could see you
But, I’ve battled fat rappers
I’ve battled short rappers
I’ve battled gun rappers, but never sword rappers
He doesn’t rap about guns ‘cause they’re not realistic
He’ll rap about dragons that fight with Aladdin, but it comes to ‘matics
And he’ll be like eh-eh
He’ll rap about Frodo and all-seeing logo, but it comes to fo’-fo’s
And he’ll be like no, no
Well what you got, the Yoroitoshi or the bolo on ya?
You got the viking, or the bowie, or the old Katana?
I’m in the Cutlass laughing at the blade at your side
Rocking stilettos, you’ve been giving off a rapier vibe
Like it’s a game in your mind, trying to perpetuate that thug life
He holds his blade like a mic, screaming, “All I need is one knife.”
That sh*t isn’t cut right, that sh*t shows your blood type
There’s a name for that: bringing a knife to a gun fight
I mean, you rap of the corniest sh*t:
“I’ll take the hammer of Thor off Orion’s belt
If I stared at Medusa, her eyes would melt.”
Shut the f*ck up
That sh*t’s your only angle, so you don’t want to tangle
If the Illuminati are what’s keeping your music off the radio
We owe them a “thank you”
See I could coach him, like Cus D’Amato, with details like custom autos
You think that it’s just bravado? I done this (Dundas) like West Toronto
You playing yourself on stage just like he John Leguizamo
So f*ck Hitori Hanzo; I’ll turn Greg into Greg Giraldo
Bro, you look like Wee Man with a cheap tan and no bread
If you’re ever kicking yourself, it’s probably in your own head
His name is Greg Poe but it should be Po’ Greg
‘cause I’d be your size if I had no legs
A paper cut could lay him up under a surgical lampshade
Then we could cover your whole body with one vertical Band-Aid
I will give your fam shells like I’m serving a clam bake
Then I’ll break down a pound like I’m learning a handshake
What you know about talkin' about fake drug sh*t to fit in?
You can’t argue with that
f*cking selling edibles out in Oregon, well you started with snacks
On that White in New York, you want to party with Smack
Whenever sonny (Sunny) In Philadelphia then it’s (Dennis) Charlie with Mac
But who getting Jobs in the Apple out of Mac and Tosh (MacIntosh)?
And if you can’t get booked there, you can’t get looked at one of the battle gods
He break the law in front of some cops out in Brooklyn for sport
Just so he could say that he got booked in New York
f*ck if you pray to the West; you look like prey to the East
And so it’s asalamalakum, then I’m making him sleep
I feel like Kanye if it came to the beef
‘cause I’d throw 500 on a fade every day of the week
Oh, you got locked up? Well it doesn’t count if you were tryin' to get caught
Buying drugs, shining your watch in the eyes of the cops
Like, “Please, at least slam me down or pull me out of traffic, pal
Or at least get me patted down, so I have somethin' to rap about.”
You the dude at the DUI checkpoint like, “I know my rights.”
As he’s ridin' home at night down the road on a stolen bike
Talkin' ‘bout, diamonds are evil and jewelry is opulent
Until you got your first chain and you couldn’t stop rockin' it
You think you got it figured out about anything ornate
You think expensive clothes exemplify poor taste
You trying to justify the salad that’s sittin' on your plate
Acting like meat is murder ‘cause you can’t afford steak
What look, outside of battling, did Illmaculate get?
You turn your opportunities into nothing, and that’s sad as a b*tch
And now you couldn’t even leave if we asked you to quit
It’s like you’re holdin' onto battling like it’s the only thing you have, ‘cause it is
[Round 2: Illmaculate]
This body’s about be a classic in this b*tch
He brought up the Hitori Hanzo blade, like that sh*t was a myth
I think Rone thinks that he’s actually a prince
I’m confused, Rone, ‘cause you talk like man, but you act like b*tch
I mean, you look like Rone, but you rap like Twist
I drank with Norm Kelly, we toast a glass like this
Said Cheers, and told Norm I got his back like Cliff
You called him a b*tch, sounding a bit jelly
But who’s the mayor of Philly? Go ‘head, b*tch, tell me
No? No? Cool, ‘cause Norm ‘ll beat the sh*t out of Jim Kenny
And run him out of Philly quicker than Chip Kelly
You battled DNA
Day of the event, here’s an angle he ‘a pick
He said black rappers don’t raise their kids...you a racist piece of sh*t
If that’s who you want as champ, you can get AIDS and eat a di*k
Cause that sh*t ain’t acceptable on any stage or league you with
For real, that’s the reason some fans don’t care KOTD exists
First you gay this week, then switch
You’re cornier than the day Charron claimed that he’s a Crip
You should be put in your place and make good on your statements
But he ran track for Penn State, so he’s always been good with the races
I heard he was getting roasted on the message board
After bloggin' throwing a tantrum on the tennis court
Which I thought was the perfect metaphor
You know, him getting served over the 'net when he could’ve been a better sport?
It’s perfect, ‘cause in that blog
He said I was the benefactor of the system, that’s why I get more credit
While bloggin' from all-white facility for indoor tennis
(You don’t see the— all right.)
Benefactor of what, Rone? It’s been a long road, chock full of potholes
I lost a match in the ring, I was Jack with the beans
I aimed high ’til my stock (stalk) rose
Stockholm; yeah, the fans can be hot-cold
But mono e mono I’ll cook you like pot roast on a hot stove
Or waffles at Roscoe’s, you a snot-nose;
But what I wrote is {sniffs} El Chapo to nostrils
So don’t reach; that’s a Dot role
Don’t Flop; you a lost Soul
Dude is silly; you from Philly? I’m Ali when he boxed Joe
Get it? You boxed, Rone
You John Doe; you’re spot’s blown like a foxhole
You’re not dope; you’re not Diz; he’s not me; he’s not grown
And we all know that I’m 5’4”
But if I roll to Rone’s crib then Rone’s getting 5-0
In three rounds you’re getting five-o’ed
Uou rap fast; you could die slow
Toronto, this is not close
He’s Tosh hostin' a talk show; I mean he’s got jokes
But what I’ve written will inspire ambition in a writer (Ridah)
A combo of Pac’s ghost, Hollow and Pablo Picasso in God mode
Bruh, even you admit you’re corny
It’s just sad that your fans can’t
Spoiled brat, his parents paid for rap camp and half the sales on Bandcamp
He just wants what he can’t have, so he wrote until his hands cramped
Then got the chain as a lower back tat
Know what he calls it? His champ stamp
But he’s soon to be the king, soon to be the k— that’s how they brand you
Cool. I got the King, helpless, think, Elvis
Watch where this fall from grace lands (Graceland) you
Malpractice: boy, I’m out of patience (patients) and such
Soon to be the— man, that obnoxious phrase is a crutch
Got ‘em calling you “king” for no reason: conversations with Lux
(Look at me, king. Oh, he gon get this work.)
See, his whole persona is “look at me, look at me,” so proud of his fame
They should call you "Team Mascot" when announcin' your name
You know why? He puts on this character to keep the crowd entertained
Then pulls a couple stunts
Til a real player comes and you get taken out of the game

[Round 3: Rone]
What’s the point of going out on a tour
When there’s no one in the crowd when you clowns go perform?
You’re so deep in the game, still sleeping down on the floor
You act proud, but it rots you right down to your core
So, to say I f*ck with you? Well I doubt it for sure
Renowned or obscure, I never heard a sound you recorded
b*tch, you’ve been making music since 2004
And I still haven’t listened to one album of yours
And the fans of your rap music are white as a Klan unit
I’m tryin' to make him embrace it, but damn it, he can’t do it
He should be grassroot-ing, but instead he pack-mule-ing
‘lac cruising, gat shooting, back of the tan Buick
Said you had nicks (Knicks) for starters, like Al Houston and Pat Ewing
What’s next, you makin' gram movements like Fat Jewish?
Well, that lightweight angle is shaky as Shaq shootin'
And that’s stupid as Atlanta fans rootin' for Cam Newton
Boy, you said your dream battle’s Jin
I couldn’t give a sh*t less
It’s funny a little Asian kid couldn’t make you a success (6's)
It’s a vignette on forgotten skill and a prequel to popping pills
It’s sick how you think you’re sick
How the mighty have fallen Ill
Bro. Pat Stay’s first was all short jokes to put this herb down
So for me to try any of that sh*t would be retarded
But I gave Pat Stay every short joke he used in his first round
So I was up one nothing before this battle even started
I don’t have short jokes; I don’t have short facts
I don’t have short quotes; I just have short math
Lookism
A guy who’s 5’6” has to make $183,000 a year
More than someone who is 6’ to be deemed equally attractive
That’s $24,000 an inch, that’s the fraction we’ll use
And what I did is I took my height and subtract it from dude’s
So look at you, 5’5”, but that’s adding a few;
So Google me. 6’1 and a half or 6’2”
Before this battle even starts, by all the math that I do
I’m already a quarter million dollars more attractive than you
And there’s nothin' you can do about it, you know that it’s unfair
You could be Brad Pitt in the face and no woman would care
I mean, there’s height restrictions in the military, I don’t know why; it’s disgusting
But of course you hate the government, you’re too short to die for your country
So that explains his head condition
His conspiracies, his pessimism
Another adolescent victim, short, poor, expecting visits
From a daddy who’d never swing it, so rage done festered in him
And he turned it against the system
But being short is no excuse for being a mental midget
I mean, you hate yourself for being short, I can tell it through your face
But look on the bright side; there’s less of you hate
And losses are a positive, so you should see some growth from this
But the fact is, you’re 5’3” and you just can’t get over it
He’s jealous I call myself the Prince, like that should describe you
Well, maybe you’re right, too, ‘cause you and Prince are both 5’2”
I call myself the Prince as a Symbol, that I’m forging my own path
I call myself the Prince ‘cause it will always be something I was formerly known as
Like: 2056, in a nursing home. T-Rex’s granddaughter is nursin' holmes
Brittle bones, decrepit clothes, shoes too big for your feet
Cause after all the years of gravity, he’s shrunken to 4’3”
He’s past the whole rapping thing, now he’s battling for his sanity
Dementia and Alzheimer’s; he can’t recognize his own family
So they don’t visit, he’s so lonely; his incontinent useless ass
Well one of the nurses, somehow, hears that he used to rap
So as a birthday present, she decides to drag a classic out
Gets all the invalids, the old people, and has them gather ‘round
She says it’s Illmac versus Rone, but then he panics at the sound
Cause as soon as he hears my name, then he flashes back to now
And suddenly, he’s wishin; for his casket and his death
Suddenly, he’s short of air and he’s grabbing for his neck
And if that was then and this is now, and you’re still panicking' through sweat
Then imagine just how bad it was at the actual event

[Round 3: Illmaculate]
He keeps bringing up conspiracies, and half of you laugh
Well, I must be a conspiracy theorist; that’s actually facts
sh*t, I feel like B.O.B. with what Adam just rapped
‘cause I swear that entire round was actually flat
As a matter fact, you talking ‘bout my drugs, when I got caught for the case
He didn’t mention my P’s, did he (Diddy)?
I mean that’d be perfect, ‘cause his most-reacted line is when he remixed me
(P Diddy - Remix me? f*ck all that.)
What you looking at? You are not a man. You will never be a man
You know why? He let Pat palm the back of his head with his hand
Never mind Sandusky molesting this b*tch
YouTube “getting brains in the lac”. I didn’t edit this sh*t
It’s a video of you giving Pat head in the whip
You don’t remember the clip? You didn’t think I would mention this sh*t?
Pat looked like MadChild last Blackout
A Swollen Member getting neck while he’s stiff
The video starts, Pat getting head in the car, nothing too embarrassing in it
Til it’s revealed it’s not a girl, it’s you
Genius, being gay is hilarious
Get it?
(No? Me either.)
Tell me this: what was the moment you became aware they were taping there?
Was it when Pat came, you came up for air, wiped your facial hair
After treating Pat’s di*k like you was ‘bout to find the chain in there?
I guess we just from two different scenes
Cause I ain’t trying to get on YouTube and watch men (Watchmen) do sh*t obscene
You normally play the Comedian, but in that new clip I seen
You just went Dr. Manhattan on us: just blew(blue) di*k on screen
Hey, f*ck it though. You should get a letterman jacket for pleasuring Pat
Giving head in the ‘lac
Yo, I guess when he lettered in track
Ain’t the only time he’s ever been a(-)head in a lap
We both battled Pat. Look how we related to him
I left with Pat’s head. You gave it to him
How did that relationship start? Does he think that it’s fate as well?
Or did you just slide in his DMs like, “A/S/L”?
That sh*t’s gay as hell, and you taped it. Well
I don’t care he made it, he’s Larry David: he played himself
You know what? You’re the most disrespected battler. Pesci ain’t got sh*t on you
Daylyt left the stage and dipped on you. Pat Stay put his di*k on you
Diz made you dress up as Bruce Jenner and put a wig on you
Now, I’m ‘bout to wig on you
The judge decide the outcome, think Pimp a Butterfly album:
I got schitz(skits) on you
Slap that Roney Baby the Prince off you;
Cold case. Charron’s face: leave prints on you
Break you down; put it together: I’ll jigsaw you
Show up to your improv group, impromptu, insult the chick on you
Diss her, and spit on you. No, Diz / Eurgh spit on you
I’ll diss her(Eurgh) and leave: Irvine crip on you
Walk in your crib on you, skip the welcome mat, wipe my kicks on you
Slap the cereal bowl out your hand and go Queenzflip in the whip on you
When I whip on you
You know what? It’s something bothering me, I just can’t ignore it
Everybody blames Sandusky; they got the facts distorted
I mean, if you seen what Rone was wearing, he was practically asking for it
Forget the rape. That’s a subject that we’ll avoid
I mean, I had to mention it; I didn’t have any choice
But now it’s a tactic employed he’s learned to handle with poise
So f*ck it, I’ll bell-clap him. Won’t hear any actual noise
Flat on canvas, no punch landed; you scrapping with Floyd
Shoulder lock, crack clavicle; grapple on point
Jab like Zab; jaw tap him like Roy
Body blow, head shot; his jaw crack like his voice
Mandible snapped at the joint
Hey yo Sandusky! That’s how you put hands on this boy
And as you just seen, I beat his ass so badly
I’m on my next lap. Next title match, me and Pass in Cali
(Whassup?)