John John Da Don vs. Bill Collector [Lyrics]

[Round 1: John John Da Don]
John John Da Don vers’ Bill Collector: is this what y’all wanna see?
A fresh fly young emcee, vers’ a Tech 9 wannabe?
God forgive me for this murder, and please don’t punish me
’Cause I’m not tryna sin, I’m just sending you some company
‘Cause I’ma send him to the sky, like a astronaut but when I knock this bitch up it’s no accident when my Magnum pop
Give him lead, just to test him, not worried if he pass or not
‘Cause he gon’ get the same multiple choice that B Magic got
That’s A, headshot, so it’s off with his mug
Or B, hit up his ribs till he coughing up a lung
Or C, go for his knees and have him falling on his nuts
Or D, start from his feet and shoot all of the above
‘Cause as of lately, ya’ whole team been looking a little shaky
How Time Bomb 6’5”, Rosenberg 500 pounds, and they get bodied by little JC?
I’m a New York giant, so if Bill play me
Y’all gon’ need more than George Wilson for Bill”s safety
Fuck Team Tag ‘Em, I’ll kill ya’ whole clique
Time Bomb time is up, he still ain’t blow shit
Eat Raw like a uncooked meal, a cold dish
Cheap customer, how I’ma leave Bill, with no tip
I caught ’em all at once, looked like we was taking photos
I flashed that cannon, made ’em show me the cheese, then they all froze
You, Pinocchio, you wish you was real
Give me the wrong pose if he would boy I’ll be lying, with this long nose
I hear him take his shots, I hear that boy hating
So I’ma throw back bullets from that cal boy, I think I’m Troy Aikman
Find me in Norristown with toys blazing
Even if he didn’t do it, he still gotta die, Troy Davis
So I hope you ready for war with all that talking
‘Cause I’ll be at ya’ door with the Mormons in the morning
The way I grill beef hit Foreman for endorsements
This Heckler I got, fuck up more, than your performance
I’m not Young Greg, I’m not Amazing D-Boy
I’m not M. Ciddy, they was just the decoys
Now you on a dummy mission, operation destroy
Barrel on his head then spin it like a b-boy
Used to be a blazer now he more like B-Roy
That Mag, got a kick and the glow, Bruce Leeroy
I let it blow to lay him down, think I’m tryna sing Lloyd
On my own, there’s no one I phone, I’m Team Droid
Had to check this nigga on the internet first
You pussy online, you don’t even put in net work
This nigga think he balling that’s until I let the TEC squirt
And put him on reserve when I leave him with a red shirt
His girl known for that good tip drill
I call her Black & Mild, she’s always on my wood tip Bill
I bought some ghetto boys from Brooklyn, you could get killed
Think you Scarface, they’ll find you out in Bushwick Bill
‘Cause on the real, you pussy, I don’t know who you tryna fake
‘Cause when you battled against Ciddy, you got all inside his face
Till he almost snuffed you, when you hit his hat by mistake
Then you apologized, like a bitch, then gave him a lotta space
You PA niggas ain’t learned from that Dose hit from Math?
You’ll get snuffed while you rapping, ask Joey Jihad
Toast gonna blast and turn him to the ghost of the past
That milli bang like Philly slang, he’ll really go in his bag

[Round 1: Bill Collector]

I’m only saying it once when I’m saying the John and there’s already a Don so you saying it wrong
John boy we ain’t playing along
We can see you are just another lame with another nigga’s name
Get me in the, get me in the, get me in the game
Knock this nigga out his Rover if you get me in the Range
Matter fact, fuck that, don’t get me in the range
With the super-duper scope I hit this nigga from Japan, blam
Here I go again
Bill Montana you can meet my lil’ friend
Dog I kill ya’
Tall, fishy motherfucker put the chrome to this nigga make Long John Silver
‘Bout time you and my nine got familiar
Run up in yo’ hotel, snatch yo’ memorabilia
Slit yo’ bitch throat like, OJ Simpson get acquitted get on Twitter then say that I really did it
That chopper end yo’ dreams it wake you up like ‘Good morning’
Mouth wide, arms stretched, shit gon’ look like you’re yawning
This is not the play station no I don’t work for Sony
My blade be swinging Shinobi my white boy shooting Ginóbili
Put that eight right on my back fresh outta school John I’m Kobe
Most vicious with that pistol, MVP with my trophy, ha
Ya’ skin turn two-tone when I shoot those .38 snubs with the wide Murda Mook nose
Let me get serious
This that high-murder-rate, dark alley flow
Bill is a work out, never been to Ballys though
Leave you embarrassed like your parents at a talent show
Sweating like K Shine staring down a calicoe
Or Teranio, you know what I mean though
Norbes threw me up in the game, I got the cheat code
I smack white out ya’ mouth, call Chico
Niggas sit and watch while I shoot, this a free throw
Most-hated PA, we go hard
And we here to take it all like the RICO law
Repo y’all, finish him, finito dog
In that Ray Allen range, Tim Tebow arm
Drink Heinekens and spit them perico bars
True stories, ya’ radio bars is too boring
Niggas couldn’t find my flow, with LoJack
You’re not really the Don, and sh’know that
I’m more, you see I’m rapping on
Ya’ life is such a rumor and I hope it passes on
You Ghostface Killah, my bullets deep as Wu-Tang with New Era signs, that’s how you cap a Don
When I went to pick my check up homie
Smack said “Bill, you ’bout to be the next up homie
On top, so step up homie”
I’m hot dog, Suge tried to put ketchup on me
You looking for a win, ain’t no hope homie
In this battle rap shit I’m the Pope homie
Dang, nah I ain’t choke homie
Ya’ momma calling, and I ain’t got no coke on me
I’m done

[Round 2: John John Da Don]
One pussy, two pussy, three pussy, four
Ya’ whole clique is a porn flick, y’all just pussy galore
I’m celibate, I don’t wanna see these pussies no more
So it’s fuck ’em, fuck ’em, fuck ’em till the pussy is sore
Pause, y’all really got this man amped for real?
This ain’t rapping, he just showing off his dancing skills
So I’ma imitate his flow, make it more advanced, but still
You’re way too animated, so it can’t be real
So chill, ’cause the only bill you got is in ya’ name nigga
Sit ya’ ass down before I make change nigga
Take this L when I aim you lil’ lame nigga
Keenen Ivory Wayans low-down dirty shame nigga
I walk in Bill crib with the milli ha
Then let it burn like Usher mixed the chili ha
I don’t shoot, no blanks I ain’t Billy ha
Eagles to ya’ dome, home game out in Philly ha
Now I got the crowd going wild, Ooh Ahh
Four pound calm him down, woosah
Get ya’ head cracked when it’s two dice, you die
Wet you with a cannonball like you was sitting poolside
You not from Philly, I know you don’t know Gillie
I know you don’t know Reed but you always on ya’ knees
Don’t know why you mentioned Peedi but I’m not at all hating
Let it ring, till it click, and got another call waiting
But, you got the burner, you said you got the burner
We heard about the burner but we never seen a burner
So how many times he gon’ talk about his burner
When no shots are being fired and no bodies never turn up?
I am, a motherfucking problem Bill
I did good with Magic like my last name was Copperfield
Yeah I heard ya’ music, no wonder you ain’t got a deal
Probably ’cause ya’ single ain’t even worth a dollar Bill
But you got flows, so I’ma quote ya’
You beyond reggie that’s good, ’cause I’m a smoker
I shoot first think second when that nine approach ya’
Take ya’ face off, now my name, John Travolta
He think he funny, with this random shit
So I’ma laugh, then clap, like a fan of his
He’ll be wheelchair-bound with four jammed-up limbs
Let’s see if this comedian, could do stand-up then
I got a call from somebody that Bill went to school with
He said Eric Wilkinson rode the short bus and had a bad habit of drooling
He stayed in one class all day, with ten teachers and five students
I said “You telling me he was Spec’ Ed?” He said “Duh”, I knew it
He even told me ’bout dirty Dana, at the time was the new chick
She let everybody from Norristown Area, to [?] High, run through it
When this dumb nigga fucked her he had a condom, but didn’t use it
I said “Is that why he say he got the burner now?” He said “Duh”, I knew it
I swear them guns so big I gotta hold it like a water hose
Like I’m getting head from a milf, I let that .40 blow
30 from that heat outta nowhere, NORESCO
The heat’ll get the coffin like he caught a cold
I do more than show it off, when I flash gats
While he reminiscing, he still wouldn’t flash back
You ain’t gotta own ya’ publishing, to get ya’ ass capped
I’ll put this pussy to sleep, take a catnap
Eat his whole flow, now that’s what you call a snack rap
Pull his card when I hit him, we ain’t even playing blackjack
The K’ll pop, when I raise the stock, no Nasdaq
Fill his kitchen with shells like he work at Joe’s Crab Shack
And that’s that

[Round 2: Bill Collector]
John took this battle ’cause he thinking he’ll rise
Big Cheese Mix guess he thinking that he a’ight
Barely pass two K’s just for thinking that he live
Fuck did you come for, John boy?
I let my hand ring on you six times boy
They think we arguing ’bout Kobe and LeBron boy
You look like a dyke bitch playing tomboy
Remain calm boy, the shit that I palm boy
Be all black and it claps for an encore
This is real nigga rap here John boy
Get killed if Bill on ya’ heels, fresh Concords
Somebody better talk to him
I got Atlanta starting line, five hawks to him
And yo’ body where they that?
In the trash where ya’ rhymes at
Matter fact let’s rewind that, Mortal Kombat
I raid in put the spark to him
My guns drawn like a cartoon
Oh well Free Willy, catch a harpoon
I line him up and put a part through him, I’m [?] the barber
So hard and hip hop’s father
Punchline artist, Antonio Tarver
Ya’ girl on my nuts, I George Washington carve her
Pause and then [?] the chest, Nicki Minaj her
Damn, why I even bother?
Riders when I roll up, heaters when I roll up
20s of that very best reefer when I roll up
It ain’t Wiz Khalifa in yo’ speakers when you roll up
It’s Beyoncé screaming ‘Diva’ when you roll up
Ricky Martin ‘loca à la vida’ when you roll up
John, this is what we wanna ask
Are you white or Puerto Rican Team Money Bagz?
You vic’ fo’
Nah you ain’t win, you was that close
Where ya’ gun John? It’s back home
How you gon’ milk me for my cheese when you lack toast?
You Phil Jackson with the bullshit, I’m thinking which weapon to maneuv’ with
The nine in the side pocket or the pool stick
I shoot boot, leg, record the full clip
I ain’t choke homie, his momma calling
I got my whole swag down
Emcee wit’ a hammer you can’t touch me
You need WD-40, ya’ hand rusty
Pull up in that Yukon, the MAC-10 husky
Bullets hit women and kids, Sandusky
I am, a motherfucking madman
You are getting ripped off, holla at ya’ grab man
Fiends turn blue off that shit that you trap fam
I drop a big dot they get ghost on ya’ pack man
I heard ya’ bitch cute I gotta meet her
All these Super Saiyans now she think my name Vegeta
I lace her like Adidas apple bum her name Bonita
Plus her pussy snap like binder rings now that’s a trapper keeper
I’m ’bout to serve ya’, don’t act like you ain’t heard of
The way I like to murder, shout out to Uncle Murda
I grab ya’ favorite girl with the Maggie, I’m Homer
I use the gasoline, you know I got the burner

[Round 3: John John Da Don]
It’s a difference, if a nigga owe me money, I blast for it
You, probably cry complain beg and nag for it
Nigga I’m a don, I send a nigga to ya’ crib in a mask for it
You’se a bill collector, what you do? Call first and ask for it
Which is why you don’t ever get ya’ money back
I’m good with money, I know y’all seen my battle with Money Bagz
Since he’s a Bill, I could fold him and put him inside of Money’s bag
‘Cause you die and have the same fate, that Money had
I’ll go postal, when them shells blam
Then put Bill in a box, like the mailman
I tried to warn him like I’m fucking up a cell’s plan
Tell him he don’t want these MACs like I’m a Dell fan
Ain’t this the same nigga that dissed Suge for some fame he could run with
Then argued with DNA on Twitter over some dumb shit
On ya’ knees begging for battles, might as well suck dick
If this ain’t a Tech 9 clone, I don’t know what is
Shotgun, he said he wanted to battle you, what you wanna do Suge?
Never mind, I got you, I’ma kill him, how you would
I have my Jersey niggas stomp him all in his chin
Till they make red bottoms outta all of they Timbs
Now, you ain’t going back to Norristown, PA, or no-fucking-where if they let the whole 400 block in
And Rosenberg you fat fuck, tell ya’ mother to keep some condoms in her purse
‘Cause I woulda been ya’ father, but I was late, and Norbes got to her first
You ain’t gotta battle him no more Suge, you good
But DNA, didn’t he violate you too? So now, I gotta kill him, how you would
This the Ultimate Rap League, I don’t know how you got in here
Probably thought this was Dancing with the Stars, and figured he had a shot this year
But guess what, it’s third round it’s getting hot in here
If y’all DNA’s slogan, say ‘Get him the fuck outta here’
So DNA, you ain’t gotta battle this nigga no more, you good
But didn’t he violate you too Tech 9? So now, I gotta kill him, how you would
Ain’t nobody gonna wanna battle you after this body bag
‘Cause everybody you called out, will put you, in a body bag
Shotgun, body bag, DNA, body bag
Tech 9 will put his body bag in a body bag
So y’all ain’t gotta battle this nigga no more a’ight, y’all good
Now let me get back, to killing this nigga, how I would
I go mental on instrumentals then Ginsu, nah that’s past tense
One shot in his temple we’ll all forget you, like a has-been
My pit bull is sick it rip through ya’ tissue, like a napkin
These pistols will hit you split you then ditch you, like a bad friend
First hand, keep a SIG, that’s gon’ wet ya’ man
And whole that’s smoking you might die from the second hand
I say fuck it, and keep shooting till that Wesson jam
Then reload and give him another shot, that’s not a second chance
Head shots, when I aim it and snipe
You’ll sleep, in a bag, like you staying the night
So please don’t say the John if you ain’t saying it twice
And if you don’t add the Don you ain’t saying it right

[Round 3: Bill Collector]
Lot of talk while I was gone bitch I’m home now
Niggas hating ’cause we up I guess it’s going down
I just shotgun Suge, I was ’bout to clean Pacino, but fuck a QP, I need the whole pound
John John lose ya’ pompoms
You couldn’t get to this level with a mat and a tomtom
I smack ya’ block, bitch it’s grind time
Roc Nation, ’cause even J see I’m a time bomb
I’m shitting on him what’s an anus to do
My name jumping out the gym now that’s heinous to who?
Bill Collector on his job John ain’t it the truth?
He went to jail we came home more famous than you
Say what you mean, speak what you know
Pay what you owe, reap what you sow
Fake niggas learn, real niggas know
Real niggas come, fake niggas go
You silly faggot, dicks are for chicks
Hop off my nigga, I pop off my nigga
You would think I spilt the hot sauce my nigga
Hit yo’ stomach make it do that Rick Ross my nigga, huh
Real dopeboy, cops get the finger
Come up out that closet Johnny, why you such a hanger?
Better brace ya’ teeth before I give you a retainer
Body get divided leave ya’ momma with remainders
Bars got you stuck nigga this is a detainer
Put this to a beat and they could say that it’s a banger
Come up to ya’ funeral to do the Macarena
Fuck it since I’m killing I’ma do the Macarena
I been really excelling with my crimes
Probably why a nigga catching felons all the time
Niggas say I do a lotta yelling when I rhyme
But it’s hot so, I should start yelling when I rhyme
Johnny, in this, game, you a, cheetah, I’ma, spot ya’
Hit him, with the, steam, make him, scream, like a, opera
Niggas, know I’m, cutting, when I, come in, with the, choppa
It go, blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka, blocka, Waka, Flacka
That burner, that BB with the burner
I bet I turn his noodle to linguini with the burner
Make him think I’m Derek [?] with the burner
Break you down to MP3 and make a CD with the burner
This street life, I’m into
Super sharp, Ginsu
Fuck you, him too
Two-piece, swimsuits
I wet you up when I blat blat
Drumroll clip I reload, do the cat [?]
You do the Running Man, Bill Collector snapping like rubber bands
Randall with the handle make you scramble like Cunningham
Watch as I initiate the war, I’m the Son of Sam
Gun in hand, coming through ya’ window I’m Bruh-Man
Write a verse about it shit be worth ’bout a hundred grand
You girl think it fabulous, she stutter “D-duh-duh-damn”
Spit it till you choke nigga
I body-beat you with my bars, rope-a-dope niggas
Worth a couple mill’ but acting like I’m broke nigga
His momma calling for that crack I sell her soap nigga

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