You battled Charlie, in front the roughest crowd
And he prepared for you by writing…nothing down
For me, he wrote all three and made his grandmother proud
Now that is just profound….
…What you don’t get it? You fuckin’ clown
I’m sayin’ that the Clips that I bring to the ring actually come with rounds
Still the streets been hatin’, I heard all them lines befo’
So when they rank us I expect to hear the Ave say, “Iron low”
But y’all feel that man cold? Chill, are y’all really listenin’?
I gotta vent, your fans blow, I blame it on their conditionin’
Dude on the stage, jumpin’ through hoops rockin’ them fugazi J’s
Isn’t sick enough to influence the game
You not the real heir (Air) your soul (sole), show there’s truth you’re a fake
You ain’t authentic enough to step in the shoes of the great
But those are actually new
And I’m kinda matchin’ you
But mine are classics so I’m winnin’ in this fashion, too!
I’ll snatch your shoes, stomp out half your crew
With one on each foot to leave him black and blue
And this is just for kicks cause Nitty don’t ride dolo
He be hoppin’ crew to crew so who are you to try Solo’?
I’m the wrong one, you’re fluid, what you’re doin’ isn’t smart Rum
Special Olympics, Track & Field: this is stupid in the long run
Get ig’nant and a couple dum-dums will leave your wig split
Then I unload even more on (moron) whoever Nit’ with (nitwit)
Yo, then I’m cuttin’ limbs off of all of Rummy’s friends
Your circle will get smaller as it goes down: the fun’ll end
A couple twins, and I nicknamed them “Rum” and “Nit”
‘Cause just when you think we all cool, they jump and click
Line ’em up, thinkin’ clips, shavin’ Crips with the sharpest knives
The razor dips in and out blue like you barbicide
And wipe the blade clean ’cause it’s time to change themes
Swingin’ bats at the top of every 4th like the Away team
Turn your meatball to Ragu with the hot spaghetti
Throw your noodle against the wall ’til it sticks: the pasta’s ready!
Food? I ain’t waitin’ for my ribs to touch
If my hunger givin’ me stomach pains I’ll shiv his gut
This bird is gettin’ stuffed like, “Thanks. Give it up”
We call that “The Itis”
If you eatin’ good, you gettin’ stuck!
Well, fuck it
I’ll pay one of the young’uns to start the party off
Leave you neckless for a rack like Mardi Gras
If a band on my boy will buy you a bed at the morgue
Paint the whole fuckin’ room for a Benjamin more
That’s how we finna do
You’re believable too
But I’m lyin’, I don’t got it on me and neither do you, Cornell
You not built how you wanna believe
With DNA strands cut from the cloth of a G
He’ll say he lick shots…but it ain’t all that it seems
If he gotta steam, the chrome is home ’cause it’s not in his jeans
Hold up, hold up, hold up
He licks, I know you follow the theme but on top of that scheme
I said “strand”, “cut”, “cloth” and then “jeans”
I’m unraveling each thread, so y’all see who could weave best
I got this bitch sewn, that’s why he seems stressed
I’ll poke holes through him, put this needle in Nit’
And then lace him with a bow that’ll leave him in stitches
We will (k)not tie!
You can’t undo the mind of the Jewish guy when you just tried to cross JC and got crucified
So suicide or I’ll do the job
You can die in your own voice
I’ll let you decide that you get taken out, baby: I’m pro-choice
[Round 1: Rum Nitty]
Aye, we got Rum Nitty vers’ this white bitch Aaron…a.k.a Iron Solomon
Who thought of this? I should race the car up on your property speedin’
Pull somethin’ out the boot and cap little Iron; these Monopoly pieces
I told him this the wrong move
Gas chamber: they gon’ be sayin’ I smoked you in a small room
In a whip with the biscuit
Head shot…wavin’ the five out the backseat like Kennedy did it
And I don’t gotta hire no help, you can check my priors
Shit I’m known to let it fire myself, I ain’t for play, don’t try him
Strays go flyin’, I clap shit, pull out a Black Smith and let it bang on Iron
I’ll run you off the block
Watch this G MC, make Iron hide, it ain’t an Autobot
I’ll pop ya top and drop your body off
Then I’m buryin’ a white man like Monster’s Ball
I use to keep a piece, not keep the peace
We was too off the chain in the field like Aqib Talib
Rusty knife I tote, but this iron sharp and Iron get it like a Bible quote
Leave a nigga leakin’ for intervenin’
While your people be penny-pinchin’, mine nickel-squeezin’
I kill him easy
Been jonesin’ to give a Jew L’s on cam: I really mean it!
I told my nigga J Nutty I would smoke you and I’m goin’ to
With a little .32 like Jones-Drew
He turn his back, I lift it on him
Then the tool kicks from the rear view like infant Jordans
I’m a shooter first, Ruger work
If I don’t got the gun, I grab the fifth from my son like Jupiter
Let me word it a lil’ different
I tell my son if he’s taken from ours
As soon as you see this Jew, put a Mercury tip in him
Ain’t nothin’ changed up, drum on a big weapon
Chris Webber: I’ll pull this Tom out and fuck the game up
Nigga, stop it, or the shit I got in store a-
Have me planting bodies, Little Shop Of Horrors
You can practice all you wanna, still get bodied, champ
It’s useless, you gon’ train and then die, you Oscar Grant
We can squab, but I’m not the one you want the fade from, I’m Sweeney Todd
I tote for real, unload the steel
Fuck boxin’, a piece will air in Iron mouth like Holyfield
Oh, you mad I’m in your face stylin’!?
It gets much worse
I pull a thang out and let it Buck first: Ray Allen
Stay wildin’, blade ’round him
Get plugged ’cause this white bitch get outta pocket like Ace found it
Bitch, you can’t keep it real yourself
Nigga, suicide or I’ll do the job, you decide, kill yourself
[Round 2: Iron Solomon]
You told us you 99% gun bars, the other 1% is the slogans
Bitch, we noticed!
When Nitty pick a topic, that boy is focused
No jokin’, no schemes, no personals, no angles
Lemme guess…you just gon’ rap about the Iron the whole battle!
Well, you should stop
‘Cause whether I kill you or not
If you can’t fit somethin’ else in the plot, you puttin’ yourself in a box
Respect this lesson
I’m tryna learn you, don’t second-guess it
Or you will always be Number 2 when your pencil’s tested
If you take battles like Scantrons, where, every question
You gotta fill your whole round up with lead just to get accepted?!
Yo, all these extra gestures made you the Prince of the Gun Punches
But the rule is, you can never be King with just one subject!
So who said you was ready to join the ranks?
Did Beasley fuel your drive? So, Eric, you’re to thank!
When he loses steam, it’s on E…for gassin’ this Quarter tanked!
Slow your pace
Give it a minute, man, you gon’ blow the race
You sell a bit of tickets, but ain’t fuckin’ with what a pro create!
How long we wait for son to grow?
While his style went from young to old
Shit, when he came out…the motherfucker was so nine months ago!
Now, a hundred and one other up-and-comers bumpin’ they gums
With a style they stole from Quantum, Con, or one of them bums
Just bustin’ they gun lines that been done and redone
You know what they say…ain’t nothing new under the S.O.N.S
The scene is wild!
These clowns doing musical theatre now
You just wanna act like a gangster
That’s why you think you Nino Brown!
That’s how you picture yourself?
So every bar’s about image
Where you either holdin’ a stick, or an arm gets shot in it?
How a movie character moves on camera, to Rum, is the realest
That’s why this film role you playing’s a little underdeveloped
Doing public dirt
Stuff we don’t even need to dig up to learn
Like, in your Ave battle, you got paid…to wear a Loyalty Over Money shirt
And wasn’t you 4th Homi Bloque-
See, that’s the stuff that always boils me
Paid to rep a clique you was never with
That’s literally money over loyalty!
Yo, and Swave a real one
He just tryna raise these children, pray they ain’t reptilian
But it’s tough to try and spot where the snakes concealin’ when they chameleons
With Writer’s Bloque, he got major billings
But the type of guap he got paid was shillings
So he DEADED them, thinking on Team Homi’s side, he’d make a KILLING!
Draw the line, boy!
Who’s the brotherhood you would really ride for?
Folk you willing to pay that price for?
The people you’d kill or you’d die for?
Is you 4th Quarter, Blood, or Crip?
You throwin’ up the 6, but you 5’4″
I’ll send him to HELL or ANGELS, if he don’t take my advice, LORD!!!
And if the Latin Kings believed ya
You would say you a fifth Boricua
And be bangin’ that black and yellow harder than Wiz Khalifa
Fabricatin’ your credibility by claimin’ you gang-bang
Sayin’ you slang grams
Type of lame that I can’t stand!
I didn’t grow up sellin’ coke, but I was raised as a ‘caine fan
Caught my first charge writin’ my name with a spray can!
So, even without the nickel, I’m the wrong one to meddle with
First name Iron, but I am good in any element
Tables with a podium, linoleum or Rust-Oleum
You really with the shits!?
The mode I’m in is Imodium!
When y’all rewind, decode the lines flyin’ over heads
Left slower minds so divine, it’s like they co-designed by God
We got a open line
My flow is wine
So even if me and this 4th Quarter score is tied inside the building
I am winning over time!
Longevity, y’all won’t ever see this war horse diminished
Despite the scoreboard or cynics, I move forward toward the finish
Never been a poor sport
I stepped on your court to scrimmage
With a buzzer-beater!
You get one shot, and this 4th Quarter finished!
[Round 2: Rum Nitty]
Aye, the fans sayin’ I ain’t ready for this legend plate
But why hesitate?
‘Cause you’ll miss 100% of the shots you never take
So I’m fuckin’ shit up
No surprise, really
I’m Lennox in Belly: y’all knew how I was cut from the jump
I don’t play with rappers!
It’s simple, if I draw, you lose, Iron: we donatin’ plasma!
A nigga will get stretched
If this drum clap at your high hat and through your temple
It be instrumental to your death!
You gon’ beat WHO!? We not for play
Spinal shot, and a bullet from behind, it could fuck up your holiday
I’m on my shit every time
So you gon’ make this a good match? You gotta pick better lines
Thought I was just finna die? They gassed you
And, to be frank, this bitch better hide!
This how a nigga play
If I need somethin’ in my house, I run in Aaron’s: I got bills to pay!
Aye, you think these bars ain’t finna beat you?
Crazy how you callin’ niggas “legends” when they just ordinary people
This shit absurd!
Nigga, I should let a .50 burst on MC Serch!
You niggas make me sick
Thinkin’ Aaron can really hang with the pen: he not a Patriot
You get props for tryin’, but off the top, you dyin’
You outta place
I treat this like Laundry Day: you know…washin’ Iron
No arms and legs when I off the Wesson
I only draw on a face: composite sketches
Fuck a movie role!
Nigga, you should know I carry in real life like The Truman Show
Get bodied if you move
Choppa on your roof
I let the machine talk to Iron like J.A.R.V.I.S. in the suit!
Every bar I’m gon’ wig
Nasty how you dyin’ on the card: that’s a Garbage Pail Kid!
Aye, I should rob you, then your squad get robbed, too
I’ll air a Smith, take whatever Iron made, and rock groups
Bullet hit his frame, then lift again
And give Aaron a shot like I missed the rim
Drop you instantly
That shit’ll drop you instantly
You thinkin’ it’s a game? Then two will sit you down: The Documentary!
Too many runnin’ from Nitty
Duckin’ and dodgin’ the coffin
For the record, they tryna juke boxes like a club in the ’50s
Thinkin’ he can see me? He wildin’
Check how I snap on the card: EBT balance!
You and I know, Ruger might blow
The lead’ll come out right before you die: that’s a suicide note
Bitch, you can’t keep it real your-
[Round 3: Iron Solomon + Rum Nitty]
Yo, I’m disgusted by the crutches that these suckas need to write
Free Surf! (Free the Wave!)
But if he the Reach God, then Rum is Reachus Christ
Yo, there be so much reachin’ when this guy composes prose
He gotta write his fuckin’ rhymes in the Heisman Trophy pose!
Recitin’ bars ’bout firearms, he’ll paint the words with his hands
Tryna convince us you catchin’ bodies through some interpretive dance
But Steams and them is the best at that
You eatin’ from what they team has done
You bitin’ pieces of the Cakes’ style, and Beasley feeds you crumbs
The bread they fed us heavyweights, Nitty never ate
Your little paper on the back end…just a temporary plate
That’s how hunger happens
You don’t run your trap, but your gums is flappin’
I’m at the bank, talkin’ withdrawals without a Southern accent!
Yo, I had this for-mula for moolah when you was just teethin’
Been milkin’ this game since Tity Boi was breast-feedin’, baby!
What, you been hot a year?
Still ain’t makin’ a dollar here
Probably wouldn’t even recognize Smack without a beard
You they property
Ain’t about to see a proper piece of the profit shared
They pay you less than bottom-tier
Nitty…you a volunteer!
And signin’ a contract’s like gettin’ high from a contact
‘Cause…NOW you gonna have a hard time gettin’ OFF SMACK!
Well, I’m handin’ out hits…so this the methadone clinic!
You get beat so steady, you’d think a metronome did it!
First, you get the ‘bow: Riddick
The left to go wit’ it
When I put lashes on your cheek, it ain’t from Eskimo kisses!
I could box with both fists, have every punch land
Or just to prove a point to them, make this 3-0 with one hand
To get props
Pinky in the air while I sip scotch
Middle finger through your round
Nothin’ you say in this ring pops!
Yo, let’s state the facts:
Y’all might have to play this back
But when you piece it all together, those the type of lines that created SMACK!
So, Glu’, Joe, Mike, and Nunn Nunn can play they new roles
But I was the first White to watch
I made this HUE BLOW!!!
I had Bookoo runs before you new-school bums
Laid the blueprint for everything that you do, Rum
Knew Smack and Beas’ before I knew what YouTube was
I could even explain in detail what NuNu does!
(We wanna know! We wanna know!)
And I was self-taught
My education was intuition
School of Hard Knocks, paid my own dues….and tuition
I use my aggressive disposition to get to this position
That L I took didn’t end the mission, that was intermission
I’m still player
The truth is, Mook did me a real favor
When he gave me that box…it made me a hell-raiser!
Plus, I never been a grudge-holder, or an axe-grinder
AYO! Watch your mouth!
(*scoffs*) Watch YO’ mouth, nigga!
Well, I never been a grudge-holder, or an axe-grinder
I just passed by ya
If you a roadblock, I’m a fast driver
Even without no gas or a flat tire
I’m that writer who could turn the whole map into flat-liners!
On paper, I got pad after pad for you manginas
Hittin’ keys, a gig of these for you bitches like Quagmire
When I slap, my last time on Smack White, it got Crab hyper
Heard him talk like he had what it take to attack Iron
But you DIED soon as the contract was signed, and the bag wired
‘Cause it ain’t work out how you planned, ’cause I’m back FIRE!
[Round 3: Rum Nitty]
Aye, y’all know I represent the set regardless
Crip this, Crip that…bangin’ every line like I telemarket
You way out your element
You’ll get the chrome, Iron
I’m still not the one to meddle with!
Them sub-par bars won’t make it
You need extra
You gon’ have to try angles together like the Star of David!
I lift joints
Two Desert Eagles, one up, one down…look like a six-point!
You SEE this shit!?
There’s a good chance he’ll die
And what I got for Iron in the jeans increases it
Buncha Rum flips, I’m TIRED of ’em!
How long you gon’ yell that Rum bull (rumble), like Michael Buffer!?
Shells is bustin’
Mask on…I fire the iron on Iron like I’m welding somethin’!
We workin’ with bangers!
So if I catch a white face in the hood…you’ll see about 36 chambers!
You KNOW I’m gon’ clap!
I let it go, it caught Iron in the face: Home Alone trap!
You could rap about how you lift the piece
It’s not enough, Iron
They’ll find your body with the fish in sea (deficiency)
Said he had the Cal’ out wildin’
Lyin’ ’bout how he let it fly…the Bow Wow Challenge!
This .380 gon’ spark him
Either that, or I’m whippin’ the 12: Players’ Club party!
Say it loud!
This whole battle random
But you watchin’ Iron get smoked against The Animal: I’m cattle-brandin’
If he TRY, he DYIN’!
Get ya whole side ignited
Just bought a Ladder 49: I’m a firefighter!
Get your squad aired, weapon to dump
Put seven in one, then they tryna give ya dawg years
You niggas gossip like a bitch!
You know the Claw Game machine?
Well, keep playin’ wit’ the Quarter ’til there’s a body on the grip!
I SMASH dome in
Hospital bed will be ya LAST moment
Your vital signs will go from “Mr. Wavy” to Ave slogan!
Aye, you know what? I don’t PLAY like that!
‘Cause it was lookin’ like a “V-A”, and now it’s straight like that!
You KNOW that he dyin’!
Extendo hangin’ out the nina: I’m 30’in’ Iron!
BITCH…you can’t keep it real yourself
Nigga, suicide, or I’ll do the job, you decide
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