Bigg K vs. The Saurus [Lyrics]

[Round 1: Bigg K]
You know how I know he suck at gambling
And he keeps having to come back here? ‘Cause he had them same Jordans on when he battled DNA last year
This shit is me and Illmac revisited, right?
You gon’ spit two rounds of that bullshit
The other round try and give me advice; sprinkle in how you and him took battle rap past limitless heights
And ain’t none of that about to save you
From this ass-kicking tonight
If you own a The Saurus CD, you’s a motherfucking nerd
You soft ‘cause he soft, that’s my motherfucking word
You about to get beat, sleeped, clean sweeped
I’m a butler with the words
Get mopped in the first and second, dusted in the third
Get your jaw touched with a quick jab
Kick, grab, Pete washed up; he get dish-ragged
Pistol getting banged, like a locker in gym class
A clip blast, he gon’ need a shit bag and a skin graft
I’m in the hood
Where you ain’t posted on the corner not strapped
Bandana on the face, go to war like Iraq
This .40 all black, knock him 40 yards back
Uppercut him through the roof, like Mortal Kombat
You lightweight, this shit is steak dinner to rice cakes
I violate, slice his wife face with a ice skate
That corny ass rap verse’ K don’t fly straight
I get my moad across, you gon’ handle bars ’til the bike break
So Freddy Krueger better tell his son “chill”
I’ma get this dub, see?
With this MAC-10, gon’ lift your Chevy up on one wheel
A gun butt will crack the Dezi, but it dump still
Your life ain’t worth a bag of Reggie and a BluntVille
I’ll smack you in the face with a burner
But you ain’t worthy of the bullet, you’s a waste of a murder
And if you ever try to play me
I’ll toss your baby off the third floor
That bitch scream when I throw it, like a Nerf ball
You got a semi-automatic? I’m coming with a fully
Duct tape, trash bags, a shovel and a pulley
Tell Mr. Two Times Everything he fucking with a bully
And you can take them two rings and shove ’em in your pussy!

[Round 1: The Saurus]
Now you on Peyote thinking K finna K.O. me, okay homie?
Betting when he catch a fade you can pay me what K owe me
I came only with a set of hands that were made solely
To make you stutter, like the second hand on a fake Roley
So watch y’all, I ain’t come to box on sight
But if a bounty on his head, what’s the knock-off price?
I heard you got two strikes hustlin’ rock on your block all night
That means you so fat, slow and stupid you got caught twice
Now he too scared of strike three to ever let his steel pop
Should’ve *67’d him and kept him in a cell block
I’m deading him, real talk, this next one is a kill shot
Headed at your grill, so protect it like your milk box
I still got this shit locked in more than one way
First I made sure my lump sum pay was more than son made
Plus, got a thousand-dollar bonus
Every time he use some corny gunplay
Just to ensure I’d see some benefits before I won, K
Now look, we met your baby mama
The whole West was training on her
Snatched your boo, K, she was never made of honor
See, people think the left is made of metal-plated armor
‘Til I raise that right, like a dedicated father
All your white fans online think this cat’s straight loco
But he’s scared to see a judge, like this match ain’t promo
See me flash? I ain’t trying to snap K’s photo
He gon’ meet the hit squad if we catch K solo
So you need to face fact, yeah, you squeeze and spray gats
But only Kevin Spacey believing K packs
So what’s up y’all? I’m all night barring, like a pub crawl
Lean back, I came to catch a body, like a trust fall

[Round 2: Bigg K]
He said something like “I was so fat I got caught twice”
I’ll let a bullet whistle ’round your neck, like Top Flight
That round you just spit? Not tight
All reaches, no punches; B Magic and Fox fight
See, after this, we poppin’ bottles and the Fauntleroy
I’m mixing cris with the spade, like Tommy Boy
I heard when you was growing up you was a mommy’s boy
And your neighborhood used to chase you and call you salami boy, and you know why?
That’s ‘cause your parents owned a sandwhich shop
Getting they cheese and they lettuce on
Your moms was a Boar’s Head beast with a set of horns
And she gave birth at work, he was deli born
That’s why his face look like a salami cold cut
After you pick out the peppercorn
I’m like that, get your mic snatched, I’m real rude
You ain’t like that, you might rap, you still food
And besides that, what if I snap in a ill mood? Is you just gon’ stand here and get fucked up, or fight back and still lose?
Ho, listen, I send a whole clip in your jawbone
Barrel smoking to the tip, like a Raw Cone
I heard you moved out Vegas and got a crib that you call home
This .50 singing on the strip ain’t Tom Jones
I come to your cookout, roll up, then pass the blunt by ya
Stick my hands in your plate, like a umpire
Shoulder stocks that fold down, like a sun visor
Twin cans; I’m Steve Austin with the Budweiser
Word to the game, my whole team gutter
I give this twat a body shot ’til his spleen rupture
You in a dirty-ass hooptie you call The Green Thunder
This stick bangin’ on that bucket like a street drummer
You trying to think of rebuttals, you need a life saver
My shit is like King Kong off the skyscraper
Guns under your chin, bang, violate ya
Brains hanging from the ceiling, like flypaper
Either this one-two lay ’em stiff
Or I’ma come through spraying shit
Bullets ain’t got no names
Tell that to who the fuck you staying with
‘Cause once they see this chopper out the sun roof, dangerous
Splatter the whole block, like “who the fuck you playing with?!”

[Round 2: The Saurus]
You did alright in that battle with Illmac
There’s no questioning
But what happens in his matches are no threat to me
See they package us both together
‘Cause they’re attached to our old legacy
But we’re our own entities, Illmaculate sold separately
Now, being underdog is something I don’t understand hardly
But a bunch of cats think he going Son of Sam on me
I don’t care if he coming with a hundred-man army
I’ll be posted outside, like Thunder Dan Majerle
I’m hot-handed, listen to me; I don’t need to grip a Uzi
To have you waving that flag, like Mr. Fuji
You just a name on a list, this is business to me
My fist’ll give your neck
A bigger twist than David Fincher’s movies
This fool is truly a goon that don’t play
So what I gotta do, put up my dukes and coach K
Showcase an ass-beating, take away the man’s freedom
Stampede him ’til his fam has to hand-feed him
Amnesia, can’t fucking remember
He went to sleep in a ring, woke up on a stretcher
Feeling lumps on his head
From where my knuckles have entered
‘Cause I got ’em pointed for you, like a public defender
You got a record, we get it
You’ve been to prison, as if it matters; two strikes
But now you a different man, and you switching answers
Out West we live by a set of different standards
I give a fuck if you’ve moved hundred packs
Of that Virginia bammer
I give a fuck about your past, you ain’t passing by me
Your next charge is life, so there’s a chance y’all might see
Them interrupt this battle for a satellite feed
Of the fat kid from Sandlot catching strike three

[Round 3: Bigg K]
Goddamn, you are fucking sweating
Somebody needs to give Pete an Alley
Talking ’bout I sell Virginia bammer
Bitch, I get my weed from Cali
They take their best shots, I find a way to block it
I turn these stars into stripes, shit is patriotic
It’s gun bars in your raps like you gangsta – stop it!
I’ll have them animals on your head, like Davy Crockett
You done committed suicide, wanksta
I throw him in the trunk, make him scuba dive later
What you got, them multis, or them stupified angles?
Ain’t none of that gon’ fly here, like the Bermuda Triangle
I got started local, now these bars is global
Shit-stain better switch lanes ‘fore his car gets totaled
These is words from a killer
Delivered through a Spartan’s vocals
I will bag The Saurus, like Barnes & Noble
I say quit rapping, you best find you a hobby
Let’s get this shit cracking, I’ll strech slime in the lobby
I’m from the east side, thuggin’ on y’all west side with a shotty
Close range, I’ll knock off the whole west side of your body
No feelin’, this dope dealin’ is bone-chillin’
You’ve been battling for 15 years with no rhythm
I crank it into fifteenth gear, go get him
Let fo’ hit him that go through him and his bro with him
These cold killers open your ceiling; Jerry Jones
Flexing, now you ’bout to get checked in the Terrordome
From up the block, Pete’ll get rocked out his herringbone
Long range, I let it sing deep; that’s baritone
And you like talking while people rapping
That there is a motherfucker; we signed a contract
And they don’t pay the fare if I sucker-punch ya
But you throwing salt in the game
Like you dare me to uppercut ya
I’ll whoop your ass for throwing salt
You Harry in Dumb and Dumber
You gon’ catch these elbows like a kickboxer
I’ll put this bone through your nose, like a witch doctor
Give you the beats out west, I’ll Rick Rock ya
I’m on that shit Pac was on at the gym locker

[Round 3: The Saurus]
I can tell from how you talk about Smack
That you not a well-paid dude
But you missed your homie’s funeral for your URL debut
Now, look, I’m aware that every story that you tell ain’t true
But if that one is, that shit sure as hell ain’t cool
I’m just saying, maybe some of K’s views are distorted
Now you can listen to this truth, or you can choose to ignore it
I’m not tryin’ to tell you what’s important
Just saying you call battle rapping corny
But you missed your brother’s funeral for it
Even the average human being
Can see the gap is huge between us
This a small sewage seep next to Katrina
This is tryin’ to shoot the breeze
Versus tryin’ to shoot a street up
You would be a small fluid leak next to Fukishima
You and me? Way beyond student/teacher
It’s a deuce-deuce tryin’ to nuke Katrina
The big picture: a computer screen next to a movie theatre
You lose, I could do this in my sleep, like a lucid dreamer
The root of evil, if the payday’s right then
He gon’ get grade-A violence, the way they like it
Straight right cold enough to make his state change climate
So it sounds like if I knock him out, the K stays silent
Go ahead, spell-check it, yeah, you sure as hell guessed it
I slept, but I’m still better, ‘cause I’m well-rested
When I’m done I’ma have to get my scale tested
‘Cause I break him down, bag him up; that’s my sales method
Now, I’m a legend, so you need not warn me
Dude’s beyond corny; QP on Maury
And that story ’bout you winning is one I won’t let stand
‘Cause when you accepted this, you fucking up; go ‘head, man!

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