Sunday, November 22, 2009

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

OH SNAP, it’s anotha slack attack –

ain’t it wack the way she tries in vain to fight back

Think she bad the way she tell a brotha he’s vanilla –

the only killa in this game is my magnum Chick-Fil-A

JuaqPho sounds like a Vietnamese entrée, though –

that fool droppin beats Drake style, f*ckin slow-yo

Best be renamin’ your Bianchi ‘Be Honky’, cuz –

frontin like you Ms. Officer, you sho nuff ain’t the fuzz

You straight-up flat, just like your flows –

I pop like Dr. Pepper, beckonin like a siren to all the fine hos

Yo rhymes about as tough as Counting Crows -

just to hear ‘em I’m gonna need a family pack of NoDoze

And while they fightin to see me from the back rows

you watching BET figurin out new ways to pose…

Friday, August 7, 2009

(no subject)

Get ready for a B(eat)-more beat-down
A trip to Kiddie City won't be able to turn your frown upside-down
Like the face of the carnival game clown
My water glock gonna drown your hopes with verbs and nouns

I'ma feel bad about it, tho--I hate to be a dream killa
But you gotta know when it come to rappin you as bland as that other Ice is vanilla
What? Icy Hot on the mic? I'm feeling drowsy, please, someone get me a pillow
Bad rappers sure do make for strange bedfellows...

Ain't bein mean, jus bein realistic, yo
I'm more likely to drop it low to the beats of that crazy mo-fo JuaqPho.
Some advice: turn your haters into motivators (you know, like I turn my pedals to keep my Bianchi from goin slow)
and maybe someday you'll be good enough to sweep the floors at the Apollo

Friday, February 13, 2009

Ice be kickin it oude genever
So hot in here feel like I got a fever
gittin buck wild make otha rappas look like Leave It To Beavers
while my Lemond roll past they hoopty-ass beaters

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

What is this wackness, fake blackness
I got no choice I’ma have to attack this
caught out before I even got my skinsuit on
and still I’ll relegate you to the arrière of the peloton

Yo line ‘bout lickin suckers?
you musta been listenin to the Lollipop song (again)
all I got to say is that is straight-up wrong -
and your idea of “sucker” is prob’ly T-dub in a thong, friend

Yo rhymes is fallin apart, they all staccato
and still you come out with all that bravado
thinkin you can bring it like Pippo Pozzato
that about as weak as pronouncin tomato “tomahhto”

Ice sick as a dog and still he rock it stone cold
leavin dust in my wake while I shake the fate hatas
(Hell, that never gets OLD - yeah I put that in bold)
time to
wind down, and dine downtown
sucka punchin smiley faces ‘til they livin in Frowntown

You want victory but you can’t buy that on layaway
you claim trickery while I drop you on the straightaway
you on a road bike, I on a stolen Huffy, hey!

(and where do you get off draggin G. Peck into the fray?)

Thursday, February 5, 2009

(no subject)

Ice, I gave it to you rough today cuz i know that's how you like it
but that don't mean I'm dissin your props today for the earlier display of my wit
Your respect is sweet, your words smoother than sugar
This honey be smilin at how HoneyCutz do right by her

Yeah, I'm sayin "Est! Est!! Est!!!" but ain't about the Falesco at Cinghiale
It's the props I'm shoutin back to the only cyclo-emcee worthy
of raisin' his glass with me or shakin' his a$$ wit me--now I'm straight up keepin it real
When he bring it, I hafta work hard to step to it (but ain't no mistakin' that I will)

(no subject)

Before you change my name, Ice, tell me on what facts was I mistaken?
How bout you chill wit Raj while I Rerun through the list of false claims you say I'm makin:
Robotic rhymes--check; exaggerating your skillz--check; enjoyin the view from behind--check; head spinnin faster than your cranks--check
All doubt is unreasonable, your honor, I rest my case. Who needs Gregory Peck?

Being faster to battle don't guarantee a win in the war
I'll take my time craftin my rhymes--don't need to hurry cuz I ain't an attention whore
I'm Aesop's tortoise and you his hare--while you be nappin I'll be lappin you and the crowds all be stoppin to stare
but not cuz of your speed, bub; it's just like with T-dub--they can't figure out why your ass is bare

Especially when mine is looking fine in 4-way stretch, 6 flat-stitch panels--do the math, punk
24 ways the junk in my trunk is gonna move when I lay down the funk--ain't no bunk--wog, your ship is sunk and my win in this race is a slam-dunk
Cuz when I need to be fast I can attack like The Cricket, and when I step to the mic the crowd starts to kick it
Yeah bring me any sucker--they know I'ma lick it, and if you got some other theory, well, you know where you can stick it