Bender vs. Big T [Lyrics]

[Round 1: Bender]
Now when he didn’t show up at Blackout I thought “Damn, what you do that for?”
You a grown-ass man and then some, fucking your fans over? That’s bad form
King of the Dot was ready, performance fee, hotel, and transport
But with two months notice this lazy fuck couldn’t go apply for a passport
I wore down this hatchet head, now there’s nothing but the handle left
From chopping down the forest needed to build your fucking casket with
Happy Easter, I’m not too religious, to me that shit’s all superstition
But I will have blood running down a Big T like a crucifixion
My music teachers were Schoolly D and Louis Prima
You doing tributes to Aretha, you the hugest diva
I’m feeling like the Cuban leader that overthrew Batista
I could rule for fifty years, I think it’s time I threw my feet up
And this here’s the new Katrina, that’s real ’cause when I kick his leg out you gon’ see a useless femur
I use my sneakers to leave you with mutant features like a sewer creature baptized in every cubic litre of nuclear seepage of fuel to leak from, Fukishima
You speaking to a reaper
I brought angles to supersede you like Monsanto
Want battle? You get ethered, I brought ammo like John Rambo
Jesus Christ, if he really think he half as slick as me
He’s coming down on yay harder than the fashion industry
Big T, you big, T, but you ain’t got no B.I.G. in ya’
I’m nice, I got Jesus Christ looking like Caligula
Uppercut take off half your grill like Richard Harrow
With a hook that’ll take your brain out your face like an Egyptian pharaoh
See Terry’s not calling the shots, if Terry starts something I’ma draw up at Terry’s spot concocting a terror plot
Think he ballin’ like Terrence Ross, Terry’s softer than terrycloth
Turn Terry to Terry Fox, take his leg and just tear it off
See Terry got nothing, can hear his heart pumping
Sound like the Terror Squad when a marathon running
Watch him black out like he aerosol huffing
When I put a bag over top his head like carry-on luggage
Fuck it, I’ll put your home address on blast just outta spite
So every week you can get that G-check at your front door, that’s lucky for life
Shit, thanks for showing up
Your gun noises better be on point ’cause mine are cold as fuck

[Round 1: Big T]
I knew he was gon’ say I got a whole bunch of gun rhymes, it’s typical
I got gun sounds and a whole bunch of punch lines, they’re typical
But I’d rather be part of a one-dimensional gun rhyme punchline festival
Than some, one-rhyme set your little son bisexual telling you to, suck my genitals
See I know what he gon’ say to get this bitch going
He gon’ say Big T look like one ignormous six-four inch, gin-pouring, bitch-whoring and Tim Horton
Shit’s boring, be having me and my clique snoring
But I guess if I say it in his form it’ll have this bitch roaring
Y’all sayin’ he a lyricist is ho shit
All he do is throw a whole bunch of syllables on shit
And most shit the shit this hoe spit be making no sense
See y’all could be pretend it’s like he come up with some dope shit
But I see why y’all call him Bender, ‘ cause he force a lot of shit that don’t fit
You get his ho, send her over like “Yo, is Al Bender over?”
Al Bender over bring her, out bend her over
That bitch be mad the way Al be in there
‘Cause every time she say “Al, be in there” she don’t even think Al be in there
That boy swing charge like a EBT card
That boy miss, that boy gon’ sing like Chico DeBarge
You miss? You see stars, another reason why they call him Bender
‘Cause he ’bout to be in the ER
You fat fucker

[Round 2: Bender]
When it comes down to the wire, I’m surprised he’s able to spit his verses
When Prop Joe saw Cheese walk in the building, he started getting nervous
The only traphouse you ever seen was watching The Sound of Music
Judging by how you bullshit, you must think these crowds are stupid
Prop Joe you don’t clock dough, you funny son of a bitch
Just ’cause you built like the Kool-Aid man does not mean you’re running through bricks
You Chicago’s bummiest pimp, how the fuck you stack skrilla?
Heard your bottom bitch got a limp and a gumline like Mac Miller
And one eye like Jack Thriller, but she always manage to get work
Probably scared if she don’t, he’ll go and eat the bitch like Big Lurch
Listen turkey tits, I ain’t come to ruffle your feathers
I pluck ’em, gut ’em, and stuff ’em and sew the cunt back together
Spill your blood so it gush in a flood your cup couldn’t measure
Have you losing more quarts than a fucking public defender
Son I’m up for whatever, got a screw loose, Bruce Bruce?
You really think we give two shits about your deuce deuce?
Shoot yourself in the mouth like the Fight Club movie
Bitch, put your lips on your dezzie, let’s play I Love Lucy
I’m feeling like Rocky, ain’t talking no Pretty Flacko
Fuck a Tommy gun, these fists is Drago mixed with Apollo
Now I’m back in LA, got explosives stacked up to detonate and leave you underground like when 50 passed on your demo tape
I be on my business, you be on your first spaghetti plate
I murder every page I touch, then burn him worse than Freddy’s face
I got the urn already, hey, let’s see if it’s worth the mess he made
When this curved machete blade turns this heavyweight to a writer sent to an early resting place like Ernest Hemingway
I’m that tidal wave that comes after you feel the quake in the ground
No words escape from your mouth as you’re washed away and you drown
You shoulda learned in the Surf battle, when they announced his name to the crowd
Put a T in front of a tsunami, it should not be making a sound
So let P.M. Dawn Corleone rhyme about letting the heat pop
While he does his signature move, the ‘I’m a little teapot’
I carve my name in your face, that’s a signature move done right
My finishing move leave no one in your circle left upright
I could have went fairly light in Toronto, and spared your life
But for wasting my time I’m going off it’s ending here tonight

[Round 2: Big T]
You are the lamest dude I ever battled
When I was beefing, you probably was raising cattle, placed with camels, singing Amazing Grace in flannels, playing pianos
While I was trying to get the gun raised to handle
You was probably playing onesies in red and green Christmas flannels
I go to your crib, take a shit in the ladies bathroom
Get on your pop’s robe, favorite sandals, change the channel
He look at me like “Hey guy, I was watching that”
I take my hands, cup ’em, “Bitch, now you watching SMACK”
I ain’t tryna display where I stay it’s real
But where I’m from, K’s get peeled, graves get filled, the teenage get killed
Where you from you say ‘poutine,’ I guess that’s some shit you make in a meal
Where I’m from you hear pew-ting, that’s bullets ricocheting from steel
It’s real, and it’s one, two, and knock the front two tooth in your front loose
Boy I son you, the same T that brought war to Sun Tzu
I shoot your bitch right up in front of you
So you gon’ be feeling right at home when I aim this can at her, it be nowhere to run to
I dismember Bender, y’all remember Bender?
Yeah, Bender send the vid’ to get the kids to listen to ya’
Pressed to enter, but wasn’t nobody impressed from the words that you get from Bender
All I heard was a bunch of flipper-sipper da blimper bimper ba blibber jibber
His punches hit, but don’t do damage, now you a fender bender
Fucking sex offender Bender, quiet

[Round 3: Bender]
This round I’m back on my monster shit, it’s how I seized the title
Got flown to the Philippines and went out to see the Eiffel
You did that Slaughterhouse battle and choked, you was just down to meet your idols
But your shot went down the drain like the shower scene in Psycho
Noah’s ark baby, got two llamas on deck
*spit* bobbity-bloop bloop, pop in the clip
The kick back will have you moonwalking like Chewbacca and knock you off the roof like 2Pac in this bitch
Rah rah bloopity choo choo, launch at your crib
Boo blocka and shit? Cool off with that bit, you sound like a retard fool, stop with that shit
Boo boo, your whole style’s a party trick
You’re known for sound effects more than any actual bar you’ve spit
This is retribution, it’s more than a rebel movement
After T gets taxed we dump him in a harbor, that’s a revolution
I stay sharper than a train yard fighter
I’m J.R. Writer spliced with H. R. Giger
Bet against me ain’t smart, I got my brain hardwired, eight large says you’ll be sleeping under Kmart flyers
You tryna lock jaws with Godzilla
Watch me ice T and lay the law down like a cop killer
This tough guy’s hostile? Said he keep that heat by his side?
Bitch you’re a plus sized model, we’d never see you squeeze in a nine
Show up with a switchblade at your grandma’s, doing angels’ work
Spit in the trick’s face, stick her ribcage, twist the blade in her
Fifth day you cremating her, just wait I’ma take the urn
Dump it on the table and *sniff*, Rick James the remains of her
I Brady Bunch your whole clan, got a box for each one
When I take your fam and tape ’em up in a van like a Partridge re-run
Your ugly granny, mommy, daddy, uncle, aunty, cousin Tammy, Doug and Sammy, plus your pappy, understand me?
Fuck your family
Bring me someone with bars, I’m too clever
I feel like Hugh Hefner with a huge heifer, I could do better
In fact, from here on in, I’m only battling legends
So next time tell The Saurus I’m coming back with a vengeance

[Round 3: Big T]
I take the biggest nigga you know and pulverize him
Slam dunk, posterizer
Hit his Facebook, notarize then rub it in like moisturizer
You look like a Greg Morganheimer
Put ninety seconds on the time and I’ma roast his ass like chestnuts on an open fire
How you gon’ put a compulsive liar vers’ Jehovah-Jireh?
I take your bitch, porcupine her, spit yellow and green, cold saliva in that ho lasagna
Then make you eat the whole lasagna
I was born in the ’80s, Chi-town [?] baby
One hostage team a’ give him, a hot sixteen, and it ain’t no verses from Shady
Only person I’m cool with from King of the Dot is Hollohan, ’cause I sold crack and he purchases daily
But I put Bender and Pat on they back like I was burping a baby
It’s crazy saying he best to me
That’s weak next to me, I see weakness, if he died
Boy I’d take it in stride, that’s a deep breath
Anybody saying that he best
Is the difference between spelling Obama and Osama’s first name: that’s BS
This weak mess, this fag was fiending to go to jail
He said “Where’s the biggest fag in San Quentin, and lead me to his cell”
The gayest thing he did as well
He said, that he wanted to get held for ransom just ’cause they leave they fingers in him [?]
I get this maggot surrounded, it be mad guts around him
With maggots around it and mag guts around it
It’s all cool, till the MAC gets a round in
And he red like a mood ring, when somebody mad gets around it
It’s on contact Bender, call combat
So you’d better calm that down, or we gon’ find where I placed that bomb at
We pray on y’all like a Islam mat
Llama clap, and had boy sleep like an insomniac
I put rubbing alcohol in the lens you get your contacts
On 4/20, I’ll get you off contact, won’t let you hit the weed, or sip the cognac
And put rubbing alcohol in the way that you put your contacts
I catch him there up in the Jeep creeping
He three cars back so he up in the Jeep sleeping
I don’t know right where he live, so I tail him to the crib
‘Cause if tail him, I gotta kill him like a deep secret

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