BB 6.11.08 no. 1

Don’t worry, Ice be fine - he relax like Frankie Goes to Hollywood
there’s no denyin my rhymes leave ya cryin, as they should – and you knew they would
you wanna talk wine? yo rhymes is like turpentine to my L’Ecole No. 9
this MC sip consommé broth at white tablecloths while you eat week-old Ostrowskis ‘n brine

Don’t worry, I know you tryin to hang tough with your 7” NKOTB
my beats leave ya eardrums double-stuffed, make your Oreo samples sound like TuTone dialin Jenny
8675309 – seven numbers is half of how many times I beat yo $$ to the finish line
and don’t bring up semantics ‘bout “Ride” versus “race” – you couldn’t drop this rhyme slayer with a can a mace

This maligned rappa pennin double time
while you have to send yoself Usofynes
'cause all the playas in the hood turned a blind eye to yo non-skinsuited behind
amount of free laughs I git on yo behalf, it’s a mothaf*ckin crime

So please, for my own sanity
put an end to yo rappin vanity
I’m getting bored of your rhymnes, they so dopey – mopey, like Opie
this ain’t a battle like Bartali and Coppi

It ain’t even fair, ya see – if Ice was a religion I’d have you excommunicated for hip hop heresy
my microphone thunda leave you blind like Stevie Wonda
if T-dub’s sleepin bag was nearby, we all know you’d be seekin cova
so don’t even pretend you can keep up with this track-whackin brotha…