Bustin on my bling while she fightin the static cling of her bike still stuck to the starting line, while Ice wine and dine – cha-CHING
thinkin her half-baked lines will buy some time, castin weak volleys from the sidelines while Ice take this battle straight to the front lines – ZING

Pretendin she don’t shop, innocent like bebop, as if accoutrements like her helmet cam and Bianchi cap just showed up on her porch – where’s the Easter Bunny, HOP
continuously bustin on Ice’s skinsuit size, while sleek like a gazelle he slide into that extra-small combined bottom and top, make the seams go POP

Pedal-powered espresso maker in one pocket, bacon in the otha –
how the f%^* else the peloton eat breakfast without moochin off this brotha?
B. Gears like to point out the flaws in Ice y’s style, neglectin all the while
her time in front of the mirror sayin her own name like she Destiny’s Child

If it ain’t on my slipstream dust that you choke,
it’ll be on your own sad lyrics that try to one-up this bloke
don’t matter whether we go spoke to spoke or joke to joke -
my spittin leave you stone cold broke, like you nothin but an unemployed Tone Loc...