Full lyrics to the first KOTD championship battle of 2016 between the champ Illmaculate and the challenger Rone.

Watch the battle here.

Round One

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 thinking 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.

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.

Photo by Christian Andrabado for BattleRap.com. 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 disgusting.

Stumpman, stumpman, stumpman, you like five foot nothing.

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 paying 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.

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 bragging ‘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 GOAT.

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 taking 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 thinking 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 passing by you and it’s not a thing to pacify you,

and if you sleep on any of my shit tonight, then I’m looking for Dan behind you.

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 TheSaurus gets more pussy and he might be spitting 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 ceiling 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 Two

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 cuts just 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 talking 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 trying 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 something to rap about.”

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

As he’s riding home at night down the road on a stolen bike.

Talking ‘bout, diamonds are evil and jewelry is opulent,

’til you got your first chain and you couldn’t stop rocking 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 sitting 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 holding onto battling like it’s the only thing you have, ‘cause it is.

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.

Photo by Zach Macphoto. 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 at Penn State, so he’s always been good with the races.

I heard he was getting roasted on the messageboard

after blogging 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 blogging from all-white facility for indoor tennis.

(You don’t see the— all right.)

Benefactor of what, Rone? It’s been a long road, chockfull 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 I wrote is (sniff) 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’re 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’ed;

in three rounds you’re getting five-o’ed. You rap fast; you could die slow.

Toronto, this is not close.

He’s Tosh hosting a talk show; I mean he’s got jokes,

but what I’ve written will inspire ambition in a writer(Rida),

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, kid. 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 announcing 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 Three

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 trying 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 making gram movements like Fat Jewish?

Well, that lightweight angle is shaky as Shaq shooting,

and that’s stupid as Atlanta fans rooting 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(6s).

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 nothing 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 nursing 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 wishing 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.

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 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?)

Lyrics transcribed in full, including slurs and offensive rhetoric in interest of accuracy. Language used and views expressed are those of the performers cited.

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