I know you till wednesday to ckeck in but I wanna get in here first:

.................................
Why am I at this battle? When this kid is just gonna clown himself/
He acts like his rhymes are rich, but he gets ‘em off the 99-cent shelf/
With M.J. in the avy you must like to molest little kids also/
Well I’m a leave ya ass confused, like ya playin Where’s Waldo/
Your ass couldn’t comprehend these lyrics if I stapled ‘em to your face/
Leave you so fukin backwards I smack the mouth out your taste/
You can say all the shit you want, but every single word is proof-less/
You can come to this battle with a mouthful, you’ll still walk away toothless/
Bitch, you couldn’t make a hit if you had Barry Bonds on your side/
You get wood reading my lyrics because I leave you petrified/
Your flow is all twisted like ya tongue got tied/
Or is that just my dick in ya mouth as u swallow your pride?/
Your raps sound text-book, are you following guides?/
Your shit is never clever the way your hollow-in-mind/
Your down with 187 Recordz, named after all your crew’s dead workforce/
The Production’s should change to 187 Wreckers, were a muthafukin merk-force/

With boot spurs on my toes, I kick ya ass the wild West-way/
Most homosexuals are bad but dog you make the best-gay/
And u couldn’t deliver a verse if it was a topping on pizza/
You must really wanna be a dick, the way everybody beats-ya/