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No need for musical entrances or flips over the ropes
I just keep hurtin'em with verbal jabs and lyrical flows
You should stick to the amateur ranks, you're not ready for the pros
Where is the competition?
I'm still waiting for them to show
But there are no real freestylers
Only fakers who write their raps on cliff notes
How many chances have you been given for my title to take?
But I leave the ring with two on my shoulder and one on my waist.
TB frauds are always in the lot steady talking
But just like Roy Jones afraid to fight the Lot's Bernard Hopkins
Like Mike Buffer, Lets get ready to Rumble
But like the rest of them, you'll just leave the humbled.

Oh hell we need ya,/
a smile on my grill just to cheese ya
all hail the Caesar/
hell yeah, i'm here to appease ya
like Chamberlin to Berlin, in thirty-nine
its fourty-nine’s near Ides of March time

leader of the known like ancient Rome
you’ve made Capitol Hill your home
looking over senators and plebians
patricians and the equestrians

well I made my way from quaestor /
to praetor now I’m here at your door /
came with conspirators for the chore /
you’re no more, so you fall to the floor

gimmie the Level, gimmie the loot!
Vocal back stab, you shout “Et tu, Brute?”
No time to hate, Germans at the gates
Time to abate my verbal constipate

Like Carthage, gonna salt your fields
No more growing rhymes is the deal
New Rome is lockin’ down the Med,
Getting’ head in captured Princesses beds

I see its the Funk four nine coming out of retirement
But in the studio making my beats is where your time should be spent
To smash you really ain't no thing
Trying to challenge the champ, throw your hat in the ring
Rhymes hit so hard, knock the taste out your palate
The only thing you Caesar of is grilled chicken salads
Overthrow your rule, like Hannibal on elephant war steeds
Your chance of making it on the Level is like a thread about nicknames and anal beads
I'm like Bacardi, my rhymes over your beats leave you all twisted
As a producer, you should stick to making Beastie Boy remixs
I know you wish you could be the white Kanye West
But if this was the Colisuem, the crowd would be chanting for your death
Many have come in the Lot trying to take my throne
But I've burned their hopes down like the city of Rome.

what up Bacardi? causin' the frosh to barf
after pizza, and your rhymes she scarfed
worshippin' the white potty now (baarf)
wishin' she's with John Gotti now (flush)
too much of a good thing, isn't
thus explains the 4-9 visit
to call fowls on your big elbows
hop-skip traveling and ugly throws
Elephants in the Alps makes me laugh
like slaves sacrificed instead of calfs

i got the riddems (and) /
i got the rhymes (and) /
got Gaul Girlies 'neath
the toga at all times

so like my bro Nero imma play some music
and its my turn so i am choosin' it
queue up a copy of the funeral march
like when Obi was struck down by Darth
you gonna be more powerful than before?
good cause then you won't make me snore
too much Hulk rhymes brings me the ZZZZs
and at every reply I just say pleeeease
imma keep my belly full with my salads
and keep your ears full with my ballads


mm.. that was a good study break. thanks.

The reason little frosh upchucked was because of the binge drinking
Pizza and Bacardi, what was he thinking?
Only those lines are in need of flushing down the John
I have rappers sleeping with the fishs like the Teflon Don
Rhymes hit you in the dome just like a mallet
Only 80's hair bands do lame power ballads
I cut up fake Mc's just like a bowl of shallots
You should stop taking bottles to the head
The reason you catch Zzzz's is because I put fakers to bed
You should stop trying to battle NJ, this is your last chance
Your rhymes and riddems are all off beat like a white guy trying to dance.

she got skunk drunk
with the Hacker-Pshorr monk
to avoid the Noid, the rhymes you toyed
to try to dis the son of the Beastie Boys
cause i'm the true prize, Mr. Closed Mind
throwin' salt to white kid dances
are you sure you like your chances?
using shallow perception,
immediate rejection,
DING! it's time for
some introspection.
Here's rhymes bout North-West
Fish Philosophy
I break up your Tough Guy
Rhyme monotony
No bottles in my head
they're in my trunk
50 shot of nitrous
to leave you punked
eatin' dust *cough* in my rear mirror
your girl called but i can't hear her
she prolly wants lil' you to come home
street lights on, put down microphone
hussle on man, i'll turn off the gear
wrap up your cord, nothing to fear
hit stop on the cassette deck, eject,
go dup your copy so you don't get wet
go find my frosh, help her sober up,
help her disrobe down, tap the mound
i know you like my sound
but its cash for autograph
buy the t-shirts online
because the lot's not yours
it belongs to fourty-nine

Good stuff, guys...good stuff.

I always enjoy reading through your battles for a break in the football talk.

Funk can't be the crown ruler of the Lot, your not suitable
Like Russell Crowe, my mind isn't closed but its beautiful
Check how the Hulkster initiate lyrical tactics
Take all your verses and flip em like they floor gymnastics
If you wanna know, yeah I like my chances
No need for arms folded or tough guy glances
Just use the superb line composition
To beat my foes into submission
Call the doctors in to check your condition
Hallucinations of Hulk defeats or better yet you wishing
You must be taking whippet hits from those 50 shot NOS bottles
Pretending your in Fast n Furious hitting your cars throttle
So please just take my heed
This ain't no Need for Speed
This is for Lot supremacy
You ain't dethroning me
Its seems the the Funk is still a slow learner
Forget the cassette decks, try a CD burner
and keep your girl away because the Hulks a head turner
Just here to remind you one last time
I run the Lot, your only king on funky49.com

not suitable? refutable! i'm not tappin' out
here in the Parkin’ Lot where we are rappin' out
you doing flips like Mary Lou, still a bore
ain't heard good from your or her since 84
your mind ain’t pretty, see its just gray matter
after you strike out Imma say ‘next batter’
Fast and Furi? See I can keep up with them
But my car’s prettier cause it’s still OEM
CD? Real DJs still use the Technics 12
So put those plastic pieces back on the shelf
Lend an ear to the sound made by oscillators
Funk’s what you heard even tho I got haters

You turn heads - in disgust - not lust - please trust
That the - funk nine -is more fine - and I shine
On hot or - not dot com - with all - MILF moms
High school - girls also - tho there don’t - wanna go

Just tapped out a groove on my MC five-oh-five
To battle rap to and keep this thread alive
Got a bass line that’ll make ya go potty
And expose your flows that sometimes get spotty
Thinkin’ you got pride in silly rhyme excellence
Well your horseman of judges is one of pestilence
I’m still in gear and got gobs of RPM to go
Before I hit top end on the Parking Lot show
Your turn buddy, its time for me to study
Then back to this place where we get muddy
Now I’m glad you got some time out the stable
So gimmie a reply while I snooze on the table

I see you're talking strike outs like you "The Rocket" man
But every verse you send I knock into the upper stands
Hulk runs the Lot, you can't win thats absurd
I'm breaking past second, getting waved around third
No poetic prose, just my magnetic flows
Coming down the line, I'm beating out your throws
Running hard with bow's
Knock you off the plate just like my name was Rose
Wannabe Vin Diesel side kick in tricked out Pinto's
I know you think you macking hot chicks, MILF mommies and all
But you can't count 3rd graders and old ladies in church bingo halls
You don't shine, your dull like old rusty spoons
With those weak lines come up shorter than the Littlest Groom
I only see 4 Horsemen riding to fortell your impending doom.
Not given my best, I'd destroy you too easily
Not need for a tap out, the ref already called the match 1-2-3.

I don’t mind if lil’ kids are cheering for-me
Cause I’m a better role model than Brit-ney
Bringing talent and skills like my girl Chris-tina
While you’re on your side like the Tower of Pisa
Please let me know - when you’ve had enough
Of this Space Cadet who’s got the Right Stuff
I’m seven astronauts rolled up into one
you’re on the playground with toy laser guns
Man, my nap really - did me great
Woke up in time to see you out at home plate

A bald kid told me something to say to you
“There Is No Rusty Spoon”, that’s my play to you
the Four Horsemen, they pull my carriage
me, beats and rhymes in a beautiful marriage
bonded together in hip hop matrimony
Adidas on my feet not K-Swiss phonies
Once Twice, Three time, my rhyme is my lady
While you’re marginally better - than Marsha Brady
Gay like Gandalf, homo like Magneto
Check the Swatch man its your time to go

Sorry Funk fo-nine your rhymes are just too soft
Came back once and for all to finish you off
Speaking of Aguilera skills more or less
The only talents she has are her ass and chest
No more post for you, those whack ryhmes are through
Hulk's too big for playgrounds, I rock PS2
Your career is over like those lame R&B chicks
Blow your up whole spot like the Explorer space ship
All Day long IDream About Some competition with skill
But y'all fakes like articial sweetners while Hulks the real deal
Three times a lady?
You sound silly just like Buckwheet
No need for more post you're already beat

Man, both you guys got flow.

Thumbs up!

Have either of you ever tried doing this in those competitions a la Eight Mile?

Sorry for interupting this good rap stuff (I feel like Puffy interjecting himself into Biggie's tunes....my bad)

Hulk’s on his knees, beggin’ me, Steve
To come back one time to spray ya with the cheese
No need to use the reverse physiologies
I got more than enough of my rhymes to please

Here’s another lesson from the riddim-rhyme master
your rhymes Hulk, sometimes end up in disaster
they should be titled “Airport” and the year
you promise a landing but your plane don’t appear
go ahead with “Airport” Two Thousand Four
I’ll lay my head down, prepared to be bored
Waitin’ till your closing credits start, you depart
Seein’ your Lot luggage taken away in a cart

See man, I got the Freaky Flyer Miles
To get me to China and adopt a child
Teach him in the ways of the funky four-nine
And out-source to him all of my new lines

On my knees, no actually the Hulk is sitting
I should be lying down with this bed story rhymes your giving
Hot lines I'm still waiting for you to make
Save all those cheesy post for your next Stevesteak
The way I dismantle competition is the only disaster
But the credits have already closed on the Funky49 chapter
No need to look, there will be no second installments
Take all your Airport verses and like Shiite's I bomb them
Go back to the lab and more beats you should make
Sorry you can't use those Flyers Miles this is a blacked out date
Hope your kid knows self defense because my style is all martial
and when he is done airbrush my ride for the next car show

I got horror stories from rhyme purgatory,
but i battled back for the Parking Lot glory

my blood type is rhyme positive of course I’ll win
even tho Hulk dishes that shit out on the chin
but see he’s got weaknesses like bad genetics
while I’m clone prime beef by all mad medics
south korea’s called me, the check’s in the mail
soon you’ll buy Perfect Funk at Wal-mart retail
so Hulk’s relegated to bargain bin material
like some no-name sugared generic cereal
your free’ comes free after mail-in rebates
mine’s a premium, never to be replaced
your text gets confusing like hieroglyphics
maybe you need the Rhyme Special Olympics
where’s the Rosetta Stone so I can understand
the Neanderthal flow from Cro-Magnon man
you’re backwards bro, I’m prediction the future
if your store was in a riot nobody would loot’ya

no more your rhyme misfires like bald tires
crown me the prince, you can call me your sire

Move over chumps cause the new dog is here
Kicking ass, taking names, while slamming a beer
Never done rhyme, rap, or free flow
But you see I’m a natural, so watch the show
You thought the parking lot was yours, but now you’re surprised
To see the storm burst in, the japanse jew has arrived
So don’t get mad, sad, or hateful
Just take some notes, and be grateful
The lesson has started, so you better sit down
And you better keep quiet, or you’ll look like a clown
You think I’m an amateur, and maybe I am
But when you turn your back for second, you’ll soon hear a BAM!
Once the dust settles, and you come to your senses
You’ll soon realize why they call me the king of the Mensas
So move over Hulk, take a seat Funky
Like Heston said, I’m a man not a monkey!


my first, and probably last and only, rap.

WINNER! WINNER! THE JAPANEESE JEW IS THE WINNER! HILARIOUS!!

thank you, thank you, thank you.

the "J2" necklaces will be at your local jewelery store soon!

I relent to you J-dub. You are now the ruler of the Lot. Guard it well.

I'm Rick James and I kicks it with Charlie Murphy..
Make Hulk in New Jersey say "Please Rick don't hurt me!"
But hurt you I will cause you still aint sayin jack..
with a hot pipe full of crack and a hand that goes SLAP!
and the same goes for the sap that's half jew and half jap
quit runnin off at the mouth cause your down to your last lap
And don't even think about tryin to blast back
cause the Superfreak dominates the weak that can't rap
You can ask Hammer
He jacked my beat and made a hit
But take a look at em' now he aint shit
So take this as a warning the title's about to switch
To the one and only champion
I'm Rick James BITCH!!

luv me sum RJB...

although now given the timing of the 1st post i read of his, and who he kinda slung a dig at, and the fact he can semi rhyme, methinks RJB may reside in Fla?

Copy cats already?

Florida? Not a resident..
Battling? Never hesitant..
All of y'all know it's evident..
Ricky J for President!

I gotta message for that kid named seth..
Keep ya comments to ya self seth,
you playin with death
that goes for anybody else in this bitch that wanna threaten me...
You bring your crew, I'll bring my homies from the seventies
Like George Clinton cause P-Funk is the bomb, smoke bongs with Tommy Chong and run a train on ya mom's.
that punany is strong
but yo Rick James can hang
I'll call up Kool and the Gang and have a Kool and the GangBang.
I'm Rick James Bitch
I know you heard it before
and any time you wanna step up I'll give you some more
So take yo ass to the store
with that comic book shit..
You aint the Hulk you just a nitwit
who knows he can't get wit
Rick James got braids
but please don't get it twisted

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