^Mad Dog
Oh no, you've exposed yourself for the pu$$y that you are
Wanna throw at me the rule book cos your shyt ain't up to par
"I wasn't even above you!!! Proliphik, why you picking on me???"
Shut the f*ck up, little bytch, straighten your wig - it's sitting wonky!
Hot like chillis - f*cking fraud! What you know about tabasco?
Was it in your gay sex games? Did homeboy pour some in your asshole?
You make me sick, and you ain't Pink, your handicap is your poor skillset
I'm merking you with ample ease - I ain't even got ill yet
I think I know your lousy game - you're the Chief Lyrics Biter
Let me tell your ass again - GET YOURSELF A GHOST WRITER!
Don't be so f*cking proud, face it - you're shyt at the moment
You tryna battle rap, but ain't nonya shyt potent
Heed this one word of advice - stay the phukk out East London
Or else get beaten to a pulp with a stolen police truncheon.

How Can You be Back.... when you have no backbone, you spineless jellyfish. I'll 'live' battle (or should I say 'batter') you anywhere.... on The Northern Line, outside Footlocker on Oxford Street.... shit, I'll battle you around the dinner table at ur mum's house just before Sunday lunch.... you have nothing, nish, nada aka Jack Schitt!!

Nothing personal, just factual.

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"Strong Lyrics, Never Die Like Gimmicks; Once You've Got the Dope Rhymes Then The Sky's The Limit"