Ice, forgive my temerity but I think you've exceeded your capacity
for coming up with rhymes that amuse or engage me
You say you high quality but I just don't see
it from these day-old, dusted-off lyrics you passin off to me

You always tryin' to front like my $hit ain't tight
but you more like Rev. Spooner, $hittin like my front ain't tight--it ain't right
especially when from front to behind the sight
of my curves carvin out swerves with my bike
cause even polite playas to lose they nerve
and just keep clockin me when they should be rockin
with me, the finest cyclin MC, the one they call Queen B

Boy, you tellin me your Heat feel twice as nice as Ice
You sure? You ain't just some second- or third-rate Bo Bice
outta place on the mic?
Then I say bring it -- it ain't no vice to roll the dice
when the prize is knockin B Gears off her bike
even though you gonna lose, you can dream all you like
Or maybe, just to be nice, while I'm catchin my breath you can hype--nothin more, cuz your rhymes is weak
don't try to serve me unless we on bikes and you my domestique
Those offers may seem meek but it's the best I can do now you hit your peak
Otherwise, son, I'm afraid your future's bleak