A Deep Cut Served a New Way

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…

(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

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…

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?)

(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

Re: So listen up, it's time for you to wise up, build your thighs up
or else drop the guise--won't be no surpise to find that all your words is lies (yup)

Props to the rappa who wrote this line
cuttin down all the slackas in a manner so fine
in seconds flat – leavin plenty of time to dine
(and of course wind down with some wine downtown)

She be seated at the chef’s table at Cinghiale
while that one-off Johnny Gruppo tryin to learn the timbale

I hear somethin cryin but it ain’t no bass thumpin
your Bianchi’s gonna need RockShox when my ryhmes start they bumpin
Who let the dogs out? Naw, it ain’t no bow-wowin
if I’m not mistaken it sounds like a li’l cat meowin

Step into the Blaze you get beat to the flo
the only way you win's by comin back fo mo
so go ahead wit’ yo stale-ass Cold Medina
Ice y gonna cure it with his Latino medicina

Atomic chix may be runnin crazy marathons,
preachin the 26-2 like it’s straight outta Farrakhan
but I’m faster on the cobbles than they is on the Autobahn
and like my man T-dub I be ridin without my pants on

You wanna talk split times, how ‘bout a double negative?
meanin my second two checks is even faster than the first is
don’t worry, I seen you flyin by – backwards, it seems
disappearin like Houdini you didn’t even catch my slipstream

Crushin Roubaix, drinkin Vouvray and collectin my pay
while lesser riders drownin they sorrows in a bowl o’ Frito-Lay
I wear a tophat on the mothaf*ckin podium
I got mad electrolytes, a load a sodium
best check ya facts 'cause I'm callin you Erroneum

Like silk or like butta, Cutz is smoova than the othas
if you step up to his game he’ll crack you like peanuttas
flap ya lips and you’ll step right into a ruckus
you think you got tight skills? Honey’s out, I say f*ck this.

Yo, what's up? B Gears back on the tour--on the mic and on the bike
headed for the podium once I drop you wannbes who think you can do what you like
Tryin to rhyme, but I say is that all you got? Flows so stiff they gotta be written by a robot?
You see me? I'm lookin' at you, Icy Hot (or yeah, I'ma say it, Icy NOT)

So listen up, it's time for you to wise up, build your thighs up
or else drop the guise--won't be no surpise to find that all your words is lies (yup)
the whole peloton be hearin your cries when my Bianchi flies by--and hey, keep your eyes up offa my prize (whassup?)
yeah, you know you like it--I see somethin's 'bout to rise up, givin' me one more way of sizin' you up

You try to say I play dirty, but you know that's laughable
You confused 'cuz you can't tell if I'm flirty or just affable
Boy, the fastest thing about you is how your head be spinning
Realizin you can't walk away from this battle even tho ain't no way you winning

J. Gruppo on the mic and he rocks it like Sir Vanderaerden
on the tops or in the drops he ain’t never gots to axe your pardon
for craftin lyrics so stone cold they make Eskimos say ‘brrr’
cold stone is the name of his game, killin it like Ekimov on the Kapelmuur

his shout-out to the Atomic crew was just in time for New Year’s
throwin out lines ‘bout baggin a few betties between beers
some a his rhymes nearly brought this poser-exposer to tears
reclaimin the Dropouts name and quellin my fixed-gear fears

on the road or on the track, he keepin it real and for that props back
to the man who flatters his rivals with flowers
after dropping they a$$es with CERA-free powers
he’ll beat you to Roubaix and the velodrome showers
(while suckas still fightin the pavé for hours)

a toast to our friend, he’s a cyberspace Flandrien
if his last name was Schleck his first would be Andy, and
his team car would be an Olds 98 and not some cheap Vanagon
he’ll lap your pursuit and then steal your nanny, man

he musta caught me in a good mood, you see?
‘cause there’s nothin worse than upsettin Ice y
in ’09 there’s no tellin what we’ll see
when the Battle unleashes on our man Johnny G…

Yo yo yo The Dropouts, AKA Johnny Gruppo on the mic

Someone's callin' me out for some casual rhymes
But this is the holidays, it's casual times
First day on the mic was a clash of the titans
Now let's bury the hatchet, put an end to the fightin'

MC Ice y Hot, MC Britney Gears
MC Mama Doc Derailleur, listen here
I contribute a scheme, rhyme scheme and some meter
Let's make a nice ride from this wreck of a beater

Seven verses to go, let's put some things straight
I had to go blasting, straight out the gate
But I can't catch a break, that's what I get for insultin'
Tell you where I'm at, this is my introducin'

a milli a milli one-thirty-five milli spacing
call me The Dropouts but which way I be facing
track end, vertical, horizontally opening
smack them, conversion, wannabe's posing

here's the first tip, I identify targets
aerospoke, (front only), rattlecan 'artist'
riser bar, cut down, in a drop stem contradiction
say "That's a tight whip", yeah drop them some fiction

or maybe it's a deep-v, for ugly-ass trackstars
I see flop-and-chops weekly, waste of a drop bar
NJS, Keirin, from glorious Nippon
if it's a rip-off, they're gonna get ripped on

trackstanding grandstanding, pre-tentious video
everything they can do I did a year ago
any chick they would do, I did two beers ago
make that a world premiere ago, two light-years ago

Think I'm getting off track? At least I've been on it
The velodrome is my home, put down the chronic
Make turns on the banks, make bank, they can bank on it
My bike or your girl, either way I'mma crank on it

All a them punks, lookin' at trackasaurus
reckon my last trip is to visit the florist
crush competition, like a steroid cyclocrosser
hand 'em the flowers, say 'sorry bout your loss, sir'

This goes out to "The Dropouts"...

Aww look at shorty, tryin to get frisky
droppin names like Levi and Zabriskie
The Dropouts? That about sums it up -
droppin names and goin down in flames
frontin like they got a cameo in Budden’s Pump It Up

Go get back on ya track bike, please
I’ma teach ya how to rhyme while you dreamin ‘bout DZ
the only thing “bellow” ‘bout ya rap is the bovine nature of its flow
so step aside and suck up ya pride, ‘cause my Vitti CGs
is gonna paint you red, black and yellow

K is for Kemmel where I know I’m gonna drop ya
rap is the game where you know I’m bound to scotch ya
krap is what’s comin outcha mouth - what is this, Gotcha?
next time stay at home ‘cause MC Ice just clocked ya

The Belgianest of Birthdays Pt. II

That's right, I still spittin
for Mama Doc Ice on a mission
and no I'm not quittin
'cause you know I ain't be $hittin

If I had needles I'd be knittin
a pair a Flanders Lion mittens
Atomic Grrrls is Vanderkittens
an' that's all that I got writtens...

The Belgianest of Birthdays

Mama Doc in the house, an' now we gonna celebrate her
when it comes to rappin she's the tops, that's why I'm gonna elevate her
Ice got the chops to drop these props, can't pass him with an elevator

Doc ain't wearin a birthday suit 'cause that would mean she nekkid
but give her a skinsuit and a mic and you got yo'self a rekkid...

2 skinsuits and a microphone, weakest shit I've ever known:

'Bout as risky as drafting Zabriskie
'Bout as crappy as the fork under Hincapie
No rhymer, wisenheimer like Leipheimer
Get you like L. Beppu and wreck ya like Bileka
But it ain't over, dick, make like Brajkovič
(say what)
Contador, Cruz, Cummings
These three C's breeze like C-C-Cool Runnings
LOOK OUT, it's Rubiera derrière ya
That means behind ya, John Devine ya
Break 'em off like Ek-i-mov
Say eke-a-move, Antonio Cruz, Vladmir Gruse
-Ev, who's left, somebody yellow next, wek, I mean weak
Yo rap's a pip squeak, mine's a bellow ---

*speakers blow, I pop a wheelie and ride out of here*

This goes out to all you brake-hatas:

YES it’s a Friday, and I’m gonna make it my day
MC Ice is back, he gonna burn you like a fried egg
poach you on the road like a commuter in a kermesse
on the bike, mic or computer my palmarès are the best

What? You think you Sean Kelly?
You must be trippin, cuz – you couldn’t even be a stagiare for Jelly Belly
Wearin earrings like Ricco? Hell, you might as well be Nelly
(‘cept that fool would never be caught watchin Versus on the telly)

One thing is clear, like crystal -
and that’s the fact that I rhyme hotta than a $2 pistol
Try to bring it and I’ll drop you like Rittsel
leave you gaspin for air as you caught out in the mistral…

Apparently photos of P-fars are more important than cycling solidarity
Dissin B. Gears? Not only does that shout hilarity, but it’s a mothaf*ckin rarity
that gril be fresher than Soap on a Rope –
straight-up Amen, and you can take that straight to the Pope

if Snob wasn’t bogged down in panty-bedecked fixies
he’d revel in the fact that he has fans in these cyclo-emcees
instead his blogspot traffic is gettin downright pornographic
if he continue to front Queen B, I’ma haveta hit his Ironic Orange Julius Bike with BlackIt

like this and like that and like this and like that
like an Uzi my Dura-Ace be goin rat a tat tat
as I climb through the gears up to fifty fo’-ten
to roll past all you suckaz all over again…

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