D-Lor vs. Phranchyze

[Verse 1: Phranchyze]
You’re gonna lose to me today, so now I got the Cali kids listening
You’re not a warrior in the Bay just ‘cause you look like Mitch Richmond
They said he was my rapping twin
Well if that shit’s a fact well then I’ma Leonardo DiCaprio him when I stick the iron mask on him
I’m surprised I got this match wit’ him
‘Cause you sit in the background like some sort of faggot Master Jin sipping tea with Tantrum like, “I don’t think I wanna battle him”
This fuck’ll get murked
Nigga I carry a sword like Guts from Berserk so when I slice through you it leave a cut in the earth
My assassin-type surgery’ll leave my knife burgundy
I’m like a scientist with luminous flux, this light work for me
So your Downward Light Output Ratio, I’ma turn it around
There’ll be no rays to output once I turn your lights, down
So like we say in Texas bitch, I’m finna be tho’ed
Like your name backwards or a Backwoods you finna get rolled
I’m hotter than fucking hell, and in case you couldn’t tell
‘Rolled’ was missing a couple letters, so I’ll hand you another L

[Verse 1: D-Lor]
If the world was more accepting, you and Stareater would make great husbands
But in the south, he gotta introduce him like “nah, this is my play cousin”
He’s into, line-dancing, cattle-roping, and base-jumping
When he takes him out he’s like “dog, don’t say nothing”
You sound, like Inspector Gadget
It would take several prerequisite classes, be telepathic and, get a diploma and fucking X-ray glasses, just to tell you apart from Detective Blacksmith
Your new name’s, Detective Phran-smith
Claiming that, Texas brashness
When he about as, brolic as a feather mattress
And wild as a, tumbleweed, blowing by a desert cactus
I mean, how else could you let two Brits revoke your ghetto passes
If you tried to rap more whiny than you are
Kid Twist would tell you to stop biting him so hard
Try to through your weight around and get violent in a yard
And get knocked the fuck out, like Rikers when the guards fire shots, at the inmates fighting in the yard
I want you to go back to WRC and look close at the clips
He wasn’t the only one whining like an emotional bitch
He got mad at Ark and Eurgh for morphing their flips
Then he morphed up his fist, and knocked both of ‘em- oh wait, he didn’t do it ‘cause he’s too much of a hoe, to do shit

[Verse 2: Phranchyze]
There’s no way you’re stopping me
I may be stuck in Texas, you’re stuck in mediocrity
The west coast thinks he’s the best
I’ll cut his face off, knees and neck
Put him on a spit to heat his chest, sprinkle on paprika next
Then proceed to, eat the flesh, that’s what I call a seasoned vet
You rap loud, but I know you’d bow out in a war
I make history, that always wins out over Lor
What makes you think that you could ever win a bout wit’ me Lor
What makes you think that you could stop what I’m about to be Lor
If you’re a samurai, I’m a Fullmetal Alchemist Lor
Why are you here? Nobody needs to lease an Altima Lor
So when you eat dinner with your mom, I bet it’s hard to face her
Knowing she met this, young black male with the, charming nature
She put my privates at ease like a, army major
Even ask an ese who ain’t been here a day
They’ll be like “Phranchyze, [?] fuerte, wey”
My style lives in a realm, where you can barely stay
So este es la dia de tu muerte wey
I came to the western zone, to use your big-ass effing dome for a stepping stone to the western throne
Let it be known, I’ll kill you with my blessed poems

[Verse 2: D-Lor]
Before YouTube existed, was when I first took to dissing
Battle of the Bay 1 through 5, they decided I was a good addition
With you, they couldn’t risk it
I mean, what the fuck have you done lately besides, Grind Time exists, footage missing
Who the fuck is Phran, he some geek impostor
He drinks a little, Seagram’s Vodka and thinks that he’s in, Three 6 Mafia
Watch D-Lor off ya’, through a futuristic soldier’s mask
I warned you ‘bout that shoulder blast
I’m Kobe in his prime, he’s got the swagger of a Sabonis or an Ostertag
Tryna, roam through trash for open cans the only time he hustles, coke, for cash
I’ll slap you with my open hand
‘Til you start rapping with that southern accent you’re supposed to have
He’s skinny, nerdy, broke, and black
And I ain’t got no fucking joke for that
See I don’t fraternize with Phranchyze since I found that Phran is fake
Plus I heard he rats to jakes
‘Bad cop’ gives black a shake, and he gives up his sources like Magic 8
Battling me, was a bad mistake when it’s obvious I’m past your rank
A hand grenade against a mass brigade of German Panzer tanks
So I’m gonna stop for a minute and start talking specific
Like why do you talk so pretentious, when to us you sound like the last Neanderthal in existence?
I can hear Fresh Coast ‘04 in all of his writtens, which makes me, your upright walking descendant

[Verse 3: Phranchyze]
This nigga Lor, got a throwback hairline
Nigga, do you practice cutting your own hair in your spare time?
There’s no way Lor can abuse me with the rhymes
Nigga we seen you at Tourettes, losing all the time
Nigga you lost so much at Tourettes niggas think you have Tourette’s
Walking around having flashbacks of when you got smashed and wrecked like “fucking balls, damn it, shit”
Every time they battle you, they say you wanna be a white guy
But judging by your Asian fascination I’d say you wanna be a rice guy
Your best ever D, won’t stop you from getting scored upon
Mosh called you Dolores, today you be, D-Lorisan
You’re the kinda cat to change your name to Saiphon
Then start a group with Tantrum called Chocolate Saigon
I got the kinda bars leave this cocky guy gone
‘Cause the force of them is quite strong like a sword of Qui-Gon
You’re gonna take one on the chin son, and then some
And when I win son, I’ma cruise the land like Superman, catching [?] eating dim sum
With my heat vision, incinerate your bitch lung
And then when I win son, it won’t be the first time a nigga came from Austin to Cali to get shit done
Vince Young

[Verse 3: D-Lor]
Saying you ripping or killing me
Would take a bigger suspension of disbelief, than seeing him pitching or flipping keys
I thought a ‘franchise’ was the player who could lift his team but homie, we in different leagues
It’s not that he’s white, he just has different slang, you know, it’s in between
His dad says “hand me them chicken wangs” he’s like, “didn’t you mean chicken wings?”
Even words like, ‘crawdads’ and ‘chitlins’ get him steamed
Like “no dad, they’re crayfish and chitterlings, totally different things”
I’m one man, but to you, this is feeling like a triple threat match
Jackknife Powerbomb get your neck snapped
I wanna know, how he black, and got a crystal meth stash
If I stabbed him, I bet he’d bleed vanilla extract
I find it as disrespect that, I even gotta continue to spit this verse
He a freestyler, I don’t even think he know how writtens work
I got heart, flow fire, spit water, mix wind with dirt
I find it ironic that Kwame from Captain Planet is getting earthed
See, he begged for no judges, tryna get off my shine to get some fame
So even when he lose kids’ll say, “he did this thang, he could hang”
People said this was an even match, but then again, opinions change
Footage drops and it’s “damn, Lor shoulda got, a bigger name”
If you think this shit’s a game, MechWarrior missiles aim
Clip your fade, ricochet, hit your leg
Seven tips split your frame, for not staying in your lane
Acidic rain inflicted pain, these are the Olympic games
Throw your sword at the emperor, are you not entertained?