Illmaculate vs. Rone (Title Match)

[Round 1: Rone]

I have orchestrated this beautifully, like I was intricate on strings with it

Co-Rone-ation day, from my Simba shit to the king of this

Today I think like a king; it’s in my bones, in my speech

Today I eat like a king; I’m thinkin' bon appetit

It’s been six months, what glory did you bring home to the league?

You ain’t even seize the throne; that crown was thrown at your feet

What is the title to you? Oh, what, now you’re a star?

No, you’re still broke, bummy, scrounging for rounds at the bar

So I consider the term “title” not sounding so hard

When you’ll never have a title on a house or a car

See, you never rap enough piff to pack up the joint

And so they made a call to Rone (Calderon) to back up the point

See we could battle for one hour. We could do a one-rounder

You lost the title after one match; that’s a short reign (rain) like a sun shower

You think like such a pussy...... whenever you make a verse

You’re so scared of what someone else might say, so you try to say it first

Well I predict that you’ll predict what I do in this match

And you’ll get done like the last prophet (Prophit) that I threw in the trash

Boy thinks that he’s a psychic, but no one here’s believing him

It’s funny he’s an extra small but he thinks that he’s a medium

But this pussy smells fishy

Is that salmon or albacore?

Is he mackerel or just gutted? He can’t get a call back from Macklemore

Bitch all my dogs loyal, like DJ Khaled or a Labrador;

I’m in El Salvador, dodging bullshit off the cape just like a matador

Bitch, I’m just getting started; this is salad course

You’re mad trash like a bag full of apple cores

Oh he ain’t catch it? Who the fuck he, Nelson Agholor?

If he the plug, I’ll rip him out by the power cord

You think you could rap, but my flow’s so disgustin'

Stumpman, stumpman, stumpman, you like five foot nothin'

Since I brought my boys here I think I might jump him; no

Since he this tall, damn, I think that I could jump him; whoa

You live off apology checks you get ‘cause you’re a eighth Native American

That means we’re payin' you, to shut the fuck up and not complain ‘bout your heritage

And that’s the only checks you get, the only income that you draw

So if my people hadn’t killed your people, you would get no money at all

I mean, no hood booger want to boogie with you

No neighbor got any sugar to use

I mean, Saurus gets ten million times more pussy than you and look at the dude

And I bet those walls in the friend zone steep

Twin bitches suck a nut for a Benzo each

You a snitch and a broke little S.O.B

I bet the pink slip on any car that Greg Poe lease (police)

Wait. Any bar that Ill conceived is ill-conceived

It’s no illusion; Ill losing. This the guillotine

It’s incredible; I’m what makes Ill edge-able

The fact that he can’t read me, I feel like like I’m illegible

But, you braggin' ‘bout smoking weed in Oregon, I said that isn’t even Ill, is it?

Wait, smoking weed in Oregon; that isn’t even illicit

Boy, I pass models coke on glass-bottom boats

This some sacrificial slaughter, it’s the lamb vers’ the G.O.A.T

And I get he’s your bro and that you think that he’s dope

But do me a favor: get Bigg K’s dick out your throat

I mean, in the Caustic battle, you have his whole D in your mouthpiece

You all over Kenny’s nuts like Stevie Janowski

You takin' trips, I make your bitch sit and leave me a house key

Then come piss on the rug like the scene from Lebowski

World Dom One, we were faded off Canadian liquor

Saurus had a bitch in his room; trying to say he could hit her

But he declined, when he ain’t even have to pay for the stripper

So for thinkin' Ill is straight (illustrate), well, what, I got to paint you a picture?

World Dom Two, you blackout wrestled Dirtbag Dan

The full story is that Dirt merked that man

At the hotel that night, he choked you out twice

I’m used to your rounds putting me to sleep, well now you know what that’s like

Check, Illmac tried to rush him, right? Dan got him mummified

He couldn’t have put you to sleep faster with warm milk and a lullaby

So talk shit when I’m passin' by you and it’s not a thing to pacify you

And if you sleep on any of my shit tonight, then I’m lookin' for Dan behind you

[Round 1: Illmaculate]

He mentioned my homie from Seattle, which reminds me

There’s just something wrong about you

To the point Macklemore might make a song about you

I mean, I’ll show you how to deliver the frees and get sick in the ring

He said The Saurus gets more pussy and he might be spittin' the frees

But that’s fitting

You know why that that’s fitting to me?

‘Cause you’re getting loose

And this is the biggest pussy that’s every been given to me

All right, look, straight to it

I been the champ, before the title or trophy

Get your wifey to blow me, but I don’t chase birds; that’s for Wile E. Coyote

My fam is full of animals like I was Mowgli

They won’t be happy ’til his head in a box: (Bing,) smiley emoji

Get socked in the ring, like I’m Mick Foley minus the goatee

You’d get ate (eight) with a twenty-four, but I’m retiring Roney

With a seasoned sixteen; shit remind me of Kobe

I don’t play in the ring

Yo, you got no bars, like a parolee

You got no bars, like a parolee

I said it twice; that’s okay, cause I guaranteed to pepper Roney

Hold up. No bars, like a parolee

It doesn’t matter; you know why?

I’ll get a body out of nowhere like Kylie and Khloe

Grimey, I’ll treat Roney like a entree served warm

And never fight clean, I was always dirt poor

I rep the North West like Kanye’s first-born

You couldn’t ride the wave with Beyonce’s surfboard

Surfboard...

Roney’s music? Nerdcore

You are a joke

This motherfucker is a shtick

Him and his friends get together and punch each other in the dick

You are a clown, I guess college life made them closer

They’re like, “party’s on, bro.” Invite some ladies over

But don’t pass out, these guys could play the joker

They shave each other’s eyebrows and draw dicks on their faces

While they’re wide awake and sober

You are a cornball

You’re battle rap for teeny boppers, expose the gimmicks

Wave riders: motion sickness

I mean, we might be close in pigment, but the approach is different

You, “white kid raps fast”, Mac Lethal, all viral, so suspicious

I mean, why? Old traditions? Wholesome image?

It’s simple; you’re a symbol of their own existence

Clothes and skin, shit

They look at you, see a mirror, don’t even know the difference

Just can’t get Past his Presence. Oh, so simplistic

They think he’s the Future ‘cause he reflects their lives like the Ghosts of Christmas

You’re battle rap for dummies, for the casual fan

Get rocked; whip him with my spatula hand since he a flash in the pan

That’s just the tip of the iceberg; the Titanic get slammed

Put us in the same boat, I’ll split you like a catamaran

If my name’s at stake (steak), I got cattle to brand

Bitch, I’m a legend, and I still (steel) open doors, like a battering ram

You a virus; I’ll penicillin ya

There’s never been a ceilin' to my writing so my pen is sealing ya

Spiteful, I bet it’s killing ya

Thirsty, riding on genitalia

Such a desperate for attention whore, where he’s from is a metaphor

Be mindful, his city’s telling ya

He’d probably swap AIDS with Tom Hanks just to go viral in Philadelphia

See, you’re just here to entertain, so you’re feeling like the cash crop

But that little bit of fame dries up when the laughs stop

So you can have them views, ‘cause I’ll be here when your fans not

I’ll hold down the champ slot

He can be the mascot

[Round 2: Rone]

You said I could be the mascot, but no one believes you

If it wasn’t for the stage, no one could see you

But, I’ve battled fat rappers

I’ve battled short rappers

I’ve battled gun rappers, but never sword rappers

He doesn’t rap about guns ‘cause they’re not realistic

He’ll rap about dragons that fight with Aladdin, but it comes to ‘matics

And he’ll be like eh-eh

He’ll rap about Frodo and all-seeing logo, but it comes to fo’-fo’s

And he’ll be like no, no

Well what you got, the Yoroitoshi or the bolo on ya?

You got the viking, or the bowie, or the old Katana?

I’m in the Cutlass laughing at the blade at your side

Rocking stilettos, you’ve been giving off a rapier vibe

Like it’s a game in your mind, trying to perpetuate that thug life

He holds his blade like a mic, screaming, “All I need is one knife.”

That shit isn’t cut right, that shit shows your blood type

There’s a name for that: bringing a knife to a gun fight

I mean, you rap of the corniest shit:

“I’ll take the hammer of Thor off Orion’s belt

If I stared at Medusa, her eyes would melt.”

Shut the fuck up

That shit’s your only angle, so you don’t want to tangle

If the Illuminati are what’s keeping your music off the radio

We owe them a “thank you”

See I could coach him, like Cus D’Amato, with details like custom autos

You think that it’s just bravado? I done this (Dundas) like West Toronto

You playing yourself on stage just like he John Leguizamo

So fuck Hitori Hanzo; I’ll turn Greg into Greg Giraldo

Bro, you look like Wee Man with a cheap tan and no bread

If you’re ever kicking yourself, it’s probably in your own head

His name is Greg Poe but it should be Po’ Greg

‘cause I’d be your size if I had no legs

A paper cut could lay him up under a surgical lampshade

Then we could cover your whole body with one vertical Band-Aid

I will give your fam shells like I’m serving a clam bake

Then I’ll break down a pound like I’m learning a handshake

What you know about talkin' about fake drug shit to fit in?

You can’t argue with that

Fucking selling edibles out in Oregon, well you started with snacks

On that White in New York, you want to party with Smack

Whenever sonny (Sunny) In Philadelphia then it’s (Dennis) Charlie with Mac

But who getting Jobs in the Apple out of Mac and Tosh (MacIntosh)?

And if you can’t get booked there, you can’t get looked at one of the battle gods

He break the law in front of some cops out in Brooklyn for sport

Just so he could say that he got booked in New York

Fuck if you pray to the West; you look like prey to the East

And so it’s asalamalakum, then I’m making him sleep

I feel like Kanye if it came to the beef

‘cause I’d throw 500 on a fade every day of the week

Oh, you got locked up? Well it doesn’t count if you were tryin' to get caught

Buying drugs, shining your watch in the eyes of the cops

Like, “Please, at least slam me down or pull me out of traffic, pal

Or at least get me patted down, so I have somethin' to rap about.”

You the dude at the DUI checkpoint like, “I know my rights.”

As he’s ridin' home at night down the road on a stolen bike

Talkin' ‘bout, diamonds are evil and jewelry is opulent

Until you got your first chain and you couldn’t stop rockin' it

You think you got it figured out about anything ornate

You think expensive clothes exemplify poor taste

You trying to justify the salad that’s sittin' on your plate

Acting like meat is murder ‘cause you can’t afford steak

What look, outside of battling, did Illmaculate get?

You turn your opportunities into nothing, and that’s sad as a bitch

And now you couldn’t even leave if we asked you to quit

It’s like you’re holdin' onto battling like it’s the only thing you have, ‘cause it is

[Round 2: Illmaculate]

This body’s about be a classic in this bitch

He brought up the Hitori Hanzo blade, like that shit was a myth

I think Rone thinks that he’s actually a prince

I’m confused, Rone, ‘cause you talk like man, but you act like bitch

I mean, you look like Rone, but you rap like Twist

I drank with Norm Kelly, we toast a glass like this

Said Cheers, and told Norm I got his back like Cliff

You called him a bitch, sounding a bit jelly

But who’s the mayor of Philly? Go ‘head, bitch, tell me

No? No? Cool, ‘cause Norm ‘ll beat the shit out of Jim Kenny

And run him out of Philly quicker than Chip Kelly

You battled DNA

Day of the event, here’s an angle he ‘a pick

He said black rappers don’t raise their kids...you a racist piece of shit

If that’s who you want as champ, you can get AIDS and eat a dick

Cause that shit ain’t acceptable on any stage or league you with

For real, that’s the reason some fans don’t care KOTD exists

First you gay this week, then switch

You’re cornier than the day Charron claimed that he’s a Crip

You should be put in your place and make good on your statements

But he ran track for Penn State, so he’s always been good with the races

I heard he was getting roasted on the message board

After bloggin' throwing a tantrum on the tennis court

Which I thought was the perfect metaphor

You know, him getting served over the 'net when he could’ve been a better sport?

It’s perfect, ‘cause in that blog

He said I was the benefactor of the system, that’s why I get more credit

While bloggin' from all-white facility for indoor tennis

(You don’t see the— all right.)

Benefactor of what, Rone? It’s been a long road, chock full of potholes

I lost a match in the ring, I was Jack with the beans

I aimed high ’til my stock (stalk) rose

Stockholm; yeah, the fans can be hot-cold

But mono e mono I’ll cook you like pot roast on a hot stove

Or waffles at Roscoe’s, you a snot-nose;

But what I wrote is {sniffs} El Chapo to nostrils

So don’t reach; that’s a Dot role

Don’t Flop; you a lost Soul

Dude is silly; you from Philly? I’m Ali when he boxed Joe

Get it? You boxed, Rone

You John Doe; you’re spot’s blown like a foxhole

You’re not dope; you’re not Diz; he’s not me; he’s not grown

And we all know that I’m 5’4”

But if I roll to Rone’s crib then Rone’s getting 5-0

In three rounds you’re getting five-o’ed

Uou rap fast; you could die slow

Toronto, this is not close

He’s Tosh hostin' a talk show; I mean he’s got jokes

But what I’ve written will inspire ambition in a writer (Ridah)

A combo of Pac’s ghost, Hollow and Pablo Picasso in God mode

Bruh, even you admit you’re corny

It’s just sad that your fans can’t

Spoiled brat, his parents paid for rap camp and half the sales on Bandcamp

He just wants what he can’t have, so he wrote until his hands cramped

Then got the chain as a lower back tat

Know what he calls it? His champ stamp

But he’s soon to be the king, soon to be the k— that’s how they brand you

Cool. I got the King, helpless, think, Elvis

Watch where this fall from grace lands (Graceland) you

Malpractice: boy, I’m out of patience (patients) and such

Soon to be the— man, that obnoxious phrase is a crutch

Got ‘em calling you “king” for no reason: conversations with Lux

(Look at me, king. Oh, he gon get this work.)

See, his whole persona is “look at me, look at me,” so proud of his fame

They should call you "Team Mascot" when announcin' your name

You know why? He puts on this character to keep the crowd entertained

Then pulls a couple stunts

Til a real player comes and you get taken out of the game

[Round 3: Rone]

What’s the point of going out on a tour

When there’s no one in the crowd when you clowns go perform?

You’re so deep in the game, still sleeping down on the floor

You act proud, but it rots you right down to your core

So, to say I fuck with you? Well I doubt it for sure

Renowned or obscure, I never heard a sound you recorded

Bitch, you’ve been making music since 2004

And I still haven’t listened to one album of yours

And the fans of your rap music are white as a Klan unit

I’m tryin' to make him embrace it, but damn it, he can’t do it

He should be grassroot-ing, but instead he pack-mule-ing

‘lac cruising, gat shooting, back of the tan Buick

Said you had nicks (Knicks) for starters, like Al Houston and Pat Ewing

What’s next, you makin' gram movements like Fat Jewish?

Well, that lightweight angle is shaky as Shaq shootin'

And that’s stupid as Atlanta fans rootin' for Cam Newton

Boy, you said your dream battle’s Jin

I couldn’t give a shit less

It’s funny a little Asian kid couldn’t make you a success (6's)

It’s a vignette on forgotten skill and a prequel to popping pills

It’s sick how you think you’re sick

How the mighty have fallen Ill

Bro. Pat Stay’s first was all short jokes to put this herb down

So for me to try any of that shit would be retarded

But I gave Pat Stay every short joke he used in his first round

So I was up one nothing before this battle even started

I don’t have short jokes; I don’t have short facts

I don’t have short quotes; I just have short math

Lookism

A guy who’s 5’6” has to make $183,000 a year

More than someone who is 6’ to be deemed equally attractive

That’s $24,000 an inch, that’s the fraction we’ll use

And what I did is I took my height and subtract it from dude’s

So look at you, 5’5”, but that’s adding a few;

So Google me. 6’1 and a half or 6’2”

Before this battle even starts, by all the math that I do

I’m already a quarter million dollars more attractive than you

And there’s nothin' you can do about it, you know that it’s unfair

You could be Brad Pitt in the face and no woman would care

I mean, there’s height restrictions in the military, I don’t know why; it’s disgusting

But of course you hate the government, you’re too short to die for your country

So that explains his head condition

His conspiracies, his pessimism

Another adolescent victim, short, poor, expecting visits

From a daddy who’d never swing it, so rage done festered in him

And he turned it against the system

But being short is no excuse for being a mental midget

I mean, you hate yourself for being short, I can tell it through your face

But look on the bright side; there’s less of you hate

And losses are a positive, so you should see some growth from this

But the fact is, you’re 5’3” and you just can’t get over it

He’s jealous I call myself the Prince, like that should describe you

Well, maybe you’re right, too, ‘cause you and Prince are both 5’2”

I call myself the Prince as a Symbol, that I’m forging my own path

I call myself the Prince ‘cause it will always be something I was formerly known as

Like: 2056, in a nursing home. T-Rex’s granddaughter is nursin' holmes

Brittle bones, decrepit clothes, shoes too big for your feet

Cause after all the years of gravity, he’s shrunken to 4’3”

He’s past the whole rapping thing, now he’s battling for his sanity

Dementia and Alzheimer’s; he can’t recognize his own family

So they don’t visit, he’s so lonely; his incontinent useless ass

Well one of the nurses, somehow, hears that he used to rap

So as a birthday present, she decides to drag a classic out

Gets all the invalids, the old people, and has them gather ‘round

She says it’s Illmac versus Rone, but then he panics at the sound

Cause as soon as he hears my name, then he flashes back to now

And suddenly, he’s wishin; for his casket and his death

Suddenly, he’s short of air and he’s grabbing for his neck

And if that was then and this is now, and you’re still panicking' through sweat

Then imagine just how bad it was at the actual event

[Round 3: Illmaculate]

He keeps bringing up conspiracies, and half of you laugh

Well, I must be a conspiracy theorist; that’s actually facts

Shit, I feel like B.O.B. with what Adam just rapped

‘cause I swear that entire round was actually flat

As a matter fact, you talking ‘bout my drugs, when I got caught for the case

He didn’t mention my P’s, did he (Diddy)?

I mean that’d be perfect, ‘cause his most-reacted line is when he remixed me

(P Diddy - Remix me? Fuck all that.)

What you looking at? You are not a man. You will never be a man

You know why? He let Pat palm the back of his head with his hand

Never mind Sandusky molesting this bitch

YouTube “getting brains in the lac”. I didn’t edit this shit

It’s a video of you giving Pat head in the whip

You don’t remember the clip? You didn’t think I would mention this shit?

Pat looked like MadChild last Blackout

A Swollen Member getting neck while he’s stiff

The video starts, Pat getting head in the car, nothing too embarrassing in it

Til it’s revealed it’s not a girl, it’s you

Genius, being gay is hilarious

Get it?

(No? Me either.)

Tell me this: what was the moment you became aware they were taping there?

Was it when Pat came, you came up for air, wiped your facial hair

After treating Pat’s dick like you was ‘bout to find the chain in there?

I guess we just from two different scenes

Cause I ain’t trying to get on YouTube and watch men (Watchmen) do shit obscene

You normally play the Comedian, but in that new clip I seen

You just went Dr. Manhattan on us: just blew(blue) dick on screen

Hey, fuck it though. You should get a letterman jacket for pleasuring Pat

Giving head in the ‘lac

Yo, I guess when he lettered in track

Ain’t the only time he’s ever been a(-)head in a lap

We both battled Pat. Look how we related to him

I left with Pat’s head. You gave it to him

How did that relationship start? Does he think that it’s fate as well?

Or did you just slide in his DMs like, “A/S/L”?

That shit’s gay as hell, and you taped it. Well

I don’t care he made it, he’s Larry David: he played himself

You know what? You’re the most disrespected battler. Pesci ain’t got shit on you

Daylyt left the stage and dipped on you. Pat Stay put his dick on you

Diz made you dress up as Bruce Jenner and put a wig on you

Now, I’m ‘bout to wig on you

The judge decide the outcome, think Pimp a Butterfly album:

I got schitz(skits) on you

Slap that Roney Baby the Prince off you;

Cold case. Charron’s face: leave prints on you

Break you down; put it together: I’ll jigsaw you

Show up to your improv group, impromptu, insult the chick on you

Diss her, and spit on you. No, Diz / Eurgh spit on you

I’ll diss her(Eurgh) and leave: Irvine crip on you

Walk in your crib on you, skip the welcome mat, wipe my kicks on you

Slap the cereal bowl out your hand and go Queenzflip in the whip on you

When I whip on you

You know what? It’s something bothering me, I just can’t ignore it

Everybody blames Sandusky; they got the facts distorted

I mean, if you seen what Rone was wearing, he was practically asking for it

Forget the rape. That’s a subject that we’ll avoid

I mean, I had to mention it; I didn’t have any choice

But now it’s a tactic employed he’s learned to handle with poise

So fuck it, I’ll bell-clap him. Won’t hear any actual noise

Flat on canvas, no punch landed; you scrapping with Floyd

Shoulder lock, crack clavicle; grapple on point

Jab like Zab; jaw tap him like Roy

Body blow, head shot; his jaw crack like his voice

Mandible snapped at the joint

Hey yo Sandusky! That’s how you put hands on this boy

And as you just seen, I beat his ass so badly

I’m on my next lap. Next title match, me and Pass in Cali

(Whassup?)