BUDDHADOME vs. conkrete

[God Of War]

posted on 8/13/01

BuddhaDome

*Yeah, I made the title like that on purpose* :smokin

Infinite bars
First to 3 votes wins
Due by August 20
Blah-blah-blah


I wasn't gonna embarrass ya here on BlackinQ
Yeah, I did drop hot bombs on hip-hop.com, but that was a wack link
We could've left that in the past, but no you asked to get dissed
By the master of this who always drops disasterous shit
To paint a lyrical murder scene of this motif
So have it your way, but not like Burger King 'cause there's no beef
But like Mc Donald's, you must love to see me smile to try to challenge me
I guess I'm (appallin/a pollen) 'cause I got ya eyes waterin' like alergies
A savage beast and I smell a feast
Like John Bobbet, you'll never bust again 'cause you should've held ya (piece/peace)
Now you gettin' jinxed
I'm hittin' ya with everything but my kitchen sink
But take this bathroom sink and brush ya teeth 'cause what ya spittin' stinks
Pull out all ya notebooks and rhymes in written ink
But to say you're half a man, you're half (lyin'/lion) like an Egyption sphinx
But you ain't the king of this or the Pharaoh Conkrete
'Cause you couldn't put it down hard if you were ferroconcrete
You just a concrete statue after this battle leaves ya frozen stiff
like Medusa; I'm an ambrosian myth you shouldn't start commotion with
Equal ratio of roastin' spliffs to roastin' emcees
I flow deep to drown ya ass like oceans and seas
And you merely a creek
Weary and weak from tryin' to figure out my eerie mystique
And in this battle, you fear the critique
'Cause you wouldn't be half of what I am if we were Siamese twins
And couldn't eat a cat in a chinese den
Your shit is soft in my ear like cotton swabs and
in the words of the cops who arrested Bobby Brown, "Houston, we got a problem!"
'Cause I'm at a higher level, I practically space travel
But you at the rock bottom, so I'm sure you can actually taste gravel
That's why ya name's Conkrete , you make "tracks" that get trampled on
You drop wack lyrics more often than P. Diddy samples songs
Your shit's like chicks with sandles on, so corny I can't see (da' feet/defeat)
But I kick it dirty from the bottom of my (soul/sole) on emcees I beat
Brutally; what could you possibly do to me as far as lyrics go?
Yeah, you could try to respond but I ain't tryin' to hear it though
I "bust" well-rounded like bitches in wonder bras
You tight , but there's a lot of ass in you like J-Lo's underdraws
You fuckin' with a pot addict
I won the first battle, but like a trigga happy mobster, you had to take another shot at it
Now that my bars shot ya down again, you at the bars downin' shots
in agony; so wave the flag to me till ya start soundin' hot


BuddhaDome; blunted and bent 100%

vs

Tha Conkrete Emcee

Yo, I kick back relaxin’ as if my rhymes were valiums
Buddha tries to bring me down, I’m attackin’ him with claws of adamantium
*shink* berserker style – killin’ him aint even a challenge, then
I devour his torso and mail his parents the other half of him
Shkilz, your lakin’ ‘em, the only way you’d ever go platinum
Is if you slurped P. Diddy’s semen then took it in the back from him-
Crossin’ over to the dark side like Anakin Skywalker
Conkrete produces more cuts than the fuckin’ Night Stalker
Whoops, looks like Buddah just got played again
Sittin’ home alone while I’m fillin’ entire stadiums
You aint even got the cranium capacity to qualify as homosapien
While I’m hyper-evolved: fuck it, Conkrete Tha Super Sayan



So KAMEHAMEHYA – I hitcha harder than bitches get hit by pimps
after they find a wad a cash hidden under their kitchen sink
So Budda, you holdin’ out on me? You gotta be
Cuz so far your skill is harder to see than the private parts on a flea
You started to believe this would be a good match
Ya thought you could advance, but got burned like a wooden lamp
I took off to the front of the pack, leavin’ your whole hood in last
Bystanders shakin’ their heads like “poor kid…he never stood a chance”
Now you’ve learned your lesson: never come to me stressin’
I already matched your skill on the mic when I said “1-2-3 testing”
This is a spaghetti western, and I’m Clint Eastwood packin’ tha
Six-shooter, blastin’ ya backwards through a break-away banister
Shit, this aint a battle, it’s a massacre, cuz you’re just an amateur
who couldn’t get paid at a club if they hired you as the janitor
Livin’ in the city of rigorous standards,
the only way you could capture my style’s with a digital video camera
you should abandon this battle, you got no course of action
It looks like when God rationed passion, you got left with just a fraction
Shit, even if you slurped P. Diddy’s semen, you’ll still never go platinum
Even if I wrote you some dope leerix, you’d still sound wack when you spat ‘em!
Cuz your lackin’ tha kind of miraculous vernacular ya find
Packed into the back of my mind-
Shit, this is like the Cadillac of rhymes, I don’t even need a dope-ass chorus
But your wack ass couldn’t fill a club even if Eminem opened for ya...



"Til the apocolypse I'ma be rockin' shit constant like a broken faucet drips...in a state of altered consciousness, watchin' this world pass me by while I stand with a glass bowl, sparkin' it..."-Conkrete