BS in the house and he rhymes like an animal
slayin fixies from Coney to DUMBO, he a regular a rap-manimal
Give him a Peugeot and he’ll TT it to Long Island
sell that sucka for ca$h, head home and buy a real brand

Almost daily he dissin single sprockets to his readers
I ain’t got a problem with those derailleur-free fools -- so long as they ain’t breeders
‘cause the last thing this world needs is a race of anemic single speeders
cloggin the tarmac with their Masi repros and Puch beaters

Brakes? Who needs ‘em? Those are for the technophile
Just slip on a pair of Campers and you can stop no problem, Flintstone style
It won’t take a nation of millions to hold back the flannel-clad peloton --
just free Conor Oberst tickets, a can of PBR, and some vintage Bennetton…

Aww merde, is that B. Gears I hear?
it about time that Bianchi-ridin fool sent some rap to my ear
but ain’t no accountz receivin gonna make up for her deficit, I fear
‘cause when it comes to swiftness in Battle, I’m lappin Roubaix velodrome while she barely at Sars-et-Rosières

The only thing hot in there is your Nelly single
in repeat mode on the discman while you try to practice that jingle
you say you like Speed Racer? Girl, you must mean Kris Kringle
but even with your 8 reindeer pullin I’ll leave you crisp, like a Pringle

I’ll take your Category 1 and crank it up to hors catégorie
climbin circles ‘round you, you won’t know whether to call me Frank or Andy
roc hoppin for truts at the top while you drag up the gradient
you drenched in sweat while me? I’m simply radiant

Ice, I know you been eager to hear from me
but your chatterin' about the corsa just didn't inspire me
any more than your yammerin' about Yanni annoyed me
Could it be that I'm saying your re-cyclo rhyming is boring me? I think it just might be...

And hell yeah it's hot in here, thanks to me and my skillz
Playas in the peloton so scared they lawyerin up to write they wills
cuz they know I'm a cyclo killa (qu'est-ce que c'est?), be gettin up in they grills
before brushin em off like bugs as I tear up Cat 1 hills

Your slamz...your style...it's all just so weak, like you some fluttery little pixie
You belong in Williamsburg with the white belt-wearin' hipsters on fixies
Or rollin on your roc hopper down 84 all the way to Dixie
But don't think you'll be lappin me cuz I'm fast like Speed Racer, and you useless like Trixie

Pins is my hips is indeed what makes me bionic
rollin cross the corsa like I’m simply supersonic
from Pittsburgh to the Koppenburg, there’s no denyin my flyin
if I drop trou it’s cause I’m too fast for my brock – leavin you small frites fryin

but if I lived on 84, I’d have truts right outside my door
while all you got is Truck Nuts tryin to even the score
and you right about my jumper, brought to mind as you stared at that bumper
it may be extra small but it don’t keep my cojones from bouncin cross the floor like Thumper

so with bacon in my pocket I take to the hills
powerin my caffetierre with my pedals while you pop pills
to try to combat the ills that this Velo MC freely spills
too hot in here? Maybe you just got the chills

but that’s okay, ‘cause every day’s a new one
maybe tomorrow I’ll let you win – just for fun
giftin you the stage like Armstrong did to Pantani
but then again – maybe I’ll just drop beats while you continue to sound like Yanni…

Why you warnin' me 'bout those pins in your hip--are you threatening to drop trou?

I hope it aint' cause you think I'll say "wow"

should I happen to catch sight of your unchammied d!&%

(Unless those pins somehow made that thing bionic...)

You wish I had Dunkin D treats in my pocket, but that's just my sweet, sweet a$$
You can get a good, long look at it when me & my Bianchi roll past
And speakin of posteriors did I rightly hear ya rhymes are related to your derriere?

Cuz I'm not so sure you wanna brag 'bout what's been comin' outta there

Namechecking Oude Kwaremont? I think someone swallowed a pretentious cyclist pill
Now I'm feeling ill--Good thing Mama D already hooked me up with some mofeen--1 pound, plus 1 refill
I'll need it all to stomach your boasting and crowing--it's like you think you Bettini

and not just some fool prancin round in your tiny white cotton semi-bikini

And please, Icy Hot, quit frontin' about your "Glock"

Admit you just Luke Warm and like listenin' to the New New Kids on the Block

While wearin a too-small, skin-tight spandex jumper

Gonna keep pretendin that you don't? Friend, you got bigger nuts than this truck's bumper:

The only pause in this battle is the menopausal bitchin
afflictin the so-called competition ‘til it’s a battle of attrition
that has me yawnin so hard it’s startin to hurt my jaws
B crabbin ‘bout claws when the only trick in her pockets is Dunkin D bear paws

applause is what we need for this cyclo emcee
insteada scrutinizin the size of Ice y’s chammy
my rhymes is as aerodynamic as my skinsuit
slicin the air, molded to my derriere – Gears, you may as well drop that mic and learn the pan flute

guts, grit, and guile – sounds like a checklist for a wannabe Flanderphile
try to feed it to the Belgians and they’ll $hit on that pile, Oude Kwaremont style
and yet your knowledge of comic book trivia leaves me agape -
MC Bruce Wayne reminds me of that kook MF Doom wearin a cape

I’m glad the Battle’s back in action –
even though my verbal punches might leave you in traction
beggin for some morphine from Mama Doc
while Ice poppin two-wheelin fools wit his Glock

and before you even think of givin me lip – just remember:
“Girl, I got pins in my hip…”

When Queen B at the mic, the "B" stands for...

Check it: Ice say he put this battle on Pause
He think he running this show, like it's Red Light Green Light and he get to say stop or go
But B Gears pressin' Play now, Playa, and out come the claws
Scratchin' out my veloflow, I'm like mothaf*ckin Zorro, making my mark on your skinsuit--hope you can sew

Or maybe drop some dough on some new gear
Cuz the way the lycra be clinging and the seams be screaming, larger shorts are what you need
See, we ain't slow--we just fear gettin too near
you; the topographic map of your Tour de Pants is making the peloton's eyes bleed

Don't misunderstand me, I ain't mocking your size
I'm an XS, too, but not like you--I'm Xtra Sassy, Xtra Sweet, Xtra Smart, with Xtra Style
Anyone sayin they fine as me, they telling straight-up lies
And while we makin a list of extras, don't forget guts, grit, and guile

CHING, ZING, POP? Holy comic book sounds effects, Batman!
I guess I'll give you style points for tryin ta be onomotapoetic
But you won't be surprised that I'm not a fan
You're no Boy Wonder, and MC Bruce Wayne? Now that's just pathetic.