Bender vs. Scott Free [Lyrics]

[Round 1: Bender]
Can you believe this shit?
He killed Chris Tipsy and absorbed his powers, it’s like Highlander but for squeegee kids
Now everything around me cash rules
So it’s funny you go by Scott Free when Ottawa sent me here to tax you
‘Cause even if you cop beats from Mobb Deep or Wu Scott Free, you would probably get booed off and moose-jawed then bodied, ya’ too soft
I said “Scotty throw a punch,” stupid [?] went and tossed me a juice box
A decade deep in this rap shit I’m still heartless
Gon’ be my face on the Wheaties box, his ugly mug on a milk carton
And I know your parents are hopin’ for a daughter
They should’ve called up Henry Morgentaler, look him up he’s an abortion doctor
Got lines perfected, dumb shit my style’s the freshest
So try to son me I treat you like Erik and Lyle Menendez
Get iced and deaded like cryogenics
Outshine my presence?
You have a better shot at George Bush’s signed confession to 9/11
Scott Free, you make John Cena sound like Sean P
You’re a back up dancer like Pac was for Shock G
And y’all need to cop Bad Information, that’s my new record
Scott here fit three dicks in his mouth at once last night, that’s his new record

[Round 1: Scott Free]
Now before Loey told me ’bout Flight Distance, I’d never heard of y’all
That’s cause your bars are as real as Decipher’s murder charge
So I came to run game on a flabby bastard
Like Wayne Campbell I’ve waited to slay a Stratocaster
See I, throw jabs at battle rappers, I’m lookin’ at you like “let’s brawl”
Stick Stratocaster with a Gibson, I’ll smash you with a Les Paul
Yes dog, I’ve seen your battle with Baracuda, you were kinda nice
But your style is like Kimbo’s wife: vagina slice
And you almost 30 aight, so how are you such a nube?
You called Baracuda ‘grandpa’ and he’s two years younger than you
Then you said you out for cheesecake and couldn’t put it better
‘Cause this belly says you out to be a sugar cookie getter
Now without a beat or a DJ, I’d bang in both your ears
You look so much like Philly Freeway I’m ’bout to Cassidy your career
‘Cause that Bourgeois hood pass revoke shit would’ve been a slick diss
If the Squidmilker had a hood pass to begin with
So you don’t end dreams like alarm clocks, it’s clear that dude’s frontin’
You so, easy to sleep through you more like the snooze button

[Round 2: Bender]
Now I hope your son never sees this footage cause I’d feel kinda bad
‘Cause he’d be like “Why did dad spend the little time we had with his writing pad
Then when it came time to actually battle he rapped like a giant fag, it’s kinda sad”
Now I told el Pesci-dente to bring me a hard rock, got me a stepping stone
A candy raving grease pencil with cold sweats off of methadone
A sex degenerate that can’t support his family how he should
Scott’s no mechanic but he’s been known to pull a tranny out the hood
And if your lady needs to pay her way through college
My man there rhymin’ might just put her on her knees like she payin’ homage
And if she’s scantily clad like Lady Gaga ya’ baby mama’s face gon’ feel it trickle down like Reaganomics
Is that goin’ over ya’ head? You play fight with ya’ rivals
I open sold-out events and give stage fright to your idols
This blood clot chump lost since the jump-off
This is like shootin’ fish in a barrel with a barrel full of buckshot
Yeah I know in the last battle Baracuda fish wasn’t perfect, but at least he put a fight up
This fool is spittin’ some nerd shit
The way I own this man, it’s like the feudal system’s resurfaced
And you call yourself Free, isn’t that just a euphemism for worthless?

[Round 2: Scott Free]
I got a family and a mortgage, I almost forgot dude thanks
You’re just pissed ’cause you’re like 30, live alone and shoot blanks
See that first spit was tired, Loe said you had talent
But I’ll smack Earth, Wind & Fire out this bootleg Kap Kallous
Like, why are you still at it? Don’t you think you should roll off before I turn that big cabbage to a grande cold slaw
‘Cause good Lord you’re not ill, your lame flows are too basic
You wouldn’t get a deal on a game show full of suitcases
True statement, none of us like your sloppy raps
You’re the only one that thinks you’re ill you hypochondriac
See I get type vicious start kickin’ up some dust, forget Flight Distance you lucky you get a ticket on the bus
You made the mistake of thinkin’ Scott Free’s a rookie once
I’m a douche bag, I came to clean this pussy up
I’ve dropped a lot of flows since I had a snotty nose
Your ass gon’ feel this shit like the toilet’s occupato and you gotta go
My show’s electric, as Hendrix, and you know what happened after
‘Cause I don’t just bend her, I smash a Stratocaster
Douse it in gasoline and flick matches at the bastard

[Round 3: Bender]
Now he’s just bummed out ’cause his woman looks like me with crooked teeth and Hook disease
Wouldn’t even cook or clean, which one of you’s got the pussy, Free?
You’re womanly, sugary, shook, you catch feelings
I right hook ya’ jaw so hard the back row can catch fillings
See, I’m a grimy type of bastard
Fuck a sucker punch I can slap ya’ lights out like The Clapper
My one liners are gunfire, burn from a burst of ammo
He went from a nerd in dirty flannel shirts and sandals to a herbish asshole purchasin’ urban camo
Where the fuck did you learn to battle?
You bearing witness to some scary business
I’ll take a pair of scissors and tell this parasitic fairy where to stick it
You beatin’ me? It’s like Hare Krishnas wishin’ Merry Christmas
I’d feel guilty, this shit’s like cherry pickin’ in the Paralympics
And he might get on a gangsta tip once he’s drank a bit but he ain’t shankin’ shit
He only gets violent when he spanks his kids
Can’t hang with this, motherfucker I go deep
Sorry Scott, your name’s the only thing here that ends with ‘OT’
So how you gonna rock with me?
You make Roch Voisine look like a striker from the Rock Machine
Go piss up a rope, you see what happens when you push me?
I got a C-section philosophy, that means I’m not goin’ out a pussy

[Round 3: Scott Free]
You just keep talkin’ ’bout winnin’, see I thought respect was more important
But who’da known that Al Borland was such a poor sportsman?
So I’m not here ’cause I think you’ve got cool rhymes you poser
I’m just surprised I thought you died when Tool Time was over
See, I’m a savage cat, with battle raps for Stratocaster
Keep the French cats in the back snappin’ like ‘Tabarnak’
Matter of fact, I’m here for slicin’ throats kid
You get ya’ head chopped, I bet that beard is hiding more chins than a sweatshop
You bet not claim to hustle hard ’cause you not a boss bitch
You roll with a smaller stash than Hitler’s top lip
So pop shit, talk slick or gossip, get caught quick, socked in the jaws like a hostage
That’s it, your style is the wackest, you’re a horrible rapper
You’re like Brad Pitt’s Italian accent in Inglourious Basterds
So I will stare you, straight in the face as I prepare to
Carlton Fisk your fuckin’ head like the Bear Jew
I dare you, to come from the nation’s capital in order for me to beat ya’
This chicken came with corny raps, yo Loes you ordered me fajitas
Bring any phony dude from your staff or pretenders to the fuckin’ brawl
And I’ll get both you boobs mashed together: Wonderbra
You such a bitch son, now put your fuzzy chin up on my balls
So I don’t need to hit the strip club to get my dick sucked in Montreal

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