Eddie Brock, PackFM, Esoteric, and Rok One Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

[Intro: Eddie Brock]
Yo, Eddie Ill, D.L. It’s Mr. Brock. So get your fam, get your block, get your Glock. Check it out, yo. Yo, yo

[Verse 1: Eddie Brock]
Yo, there’s a hundred ways to diss you in a verse. My lungs favor pistols
With flavor crystals, so when I blast a rhyme, I’ll make your center burst
Fuck around, end up in a hearse, backseat-driving
While I’ll hurry you to your burial with your wack beat riding
And hit eject. In all due disrespect
You rapping rejects, I’m leaving your chest open like V-necks
Y’all make me laugh like detects playing the low in blue Caprices
Like niggas don’t know who the beast is. My clique’s
The wrong crew to beef with. We call the shots—niggas from [?]-
-‘ll be on your block in a fleet of whips like the Autobots
With heist plots, taking all you got. A shorty you consider
Top-notch are sort of like Scotch—they’re on the rocks
She ain’t got the tight box, she don’t get a call from Brock
‘Cause I focus like Cyclops and keep one eye on the crotch
I’m putting five warning shots in your groin and knot
Then form a pentagon when I use your blood to join the dots

[Interlude 1: Eddie Brock and PackFM]
Eddie Brock: Yeah, wha-what?
PackFM: One time for your mind. PackFM, what? It’s like, yo

[Verse 2: PackFM]
Your rhymes ain’t even worth two cents, you nuisance
You hear me in the cyph’ and be like, “Damn, I’ma write some new shit”
Ain’t nothing you can do, kid. I give heart attacks to Cupid
Know exactly how to lose and I’m about to make you do it
You’ll get dusted when I’m acting up like allergies
Be like a bite. Have a seat ‘cause you’re too tired to handle me
Emcees get canned quick with a five-cent deposit, locked in
The basement with a gay one so they can’t come out the closet
It’s only logic I’ll clown these rappers in my pastime
But they miss it ‘cause, when I diss ‘em, they’re just catching the last line
Chop ‘em up like suey—there’s absolutely nothing left of ‘em
They try to scream my rhymes, their voice gets Weezy like The Jeffersons
Rhymes, I set it in bulk while you sit in your bed and you sulk
Quicker to switch for the green than the Incredible Hulk
But I wouldn’t be in this rap shit if I wanted crazy loot
And I wouldn’t be conceited if I wasn’t crazy cute
You got hit with a stray rhyme. “I’m sorry. He made me shoot”
My rhymes stick out like Foxy Brown’s stomach in bathing suits
I’ll battle you, doing your overdoes. I’m over men
The best wrapping/rapping on your tape is the plastic, so I won’t open it
My writtens are so dope, y’all niggas beg me to free
But the last time I came off of the head, your girl was on her knees
So fuck a freestyle even though I’m one of the best at this
I got your moms worried ‘cause all my role models are wrestlers
Walking the street with the foreign knife to get my [?]
Smacking your face in the turnbuckle just to make you look back
Thinking of looking valued, thinking that you a heartthrob
When your father is [?] and your mother is Dennis Rodman
I’m not the one for testing, nor for second-guessing
I’ll stop schooling emcees ‘cause they just don’t learn their lesson
I’m ill enough to sell the Cocoa beans of Smith & Wesson
Don’t dial nine-eleven. You better dial seven for heaven
But you won’t be going there. You’ll be going downstairs
In a chair behind Satan, being his bitch and braiding his hair

[Interlude 2: PackFM and Esoteric]
PackFM: What? PackFM, yo. [?]
Esoteric: Yo, it’s Esoteric. Yo, yo, yo, check it out

[Verse 3: Esoteric]
My words attack troops of rap groups with wack loops
In comparison, you’re embarrassing. I’m stacking loot
Wearing black suits to your funeral like it’s a musical
It’s usual cats [?] like I’m marsupial
It’s beautiful, suitable for fashion models
It’s astrological as Aristotle, [?] smashing bottles
Off your noggin. 7 makes tracks that get to bogging
Emcees, beware whenever I start rocking
I’m Galactus eating planets, exhaling your atmosphere
Rappers fear my existence—that’s why they keep their distance
Your shit is so weak that you must be kicking misprints
Or typos. I strike those with tight flows who claim
They’re psycho and stupid. We’ll step to the ones who proved it
City-wide, I’ll face cats like Kitty Pride
Dignified samurai. Your franchise will fall short
Come on, chief, I’m on point like [?]

[Interlude 3: Esoteric and Rok One]
Esoteric: Word up, that’s how we do. You know the deal. For Eddie Ill & D.L
Rok One: Yeah, yeah. Check this out, y’all. It’s Rok One, motherfuckers. Yo, yo

[Verse 4: Rok One]
Well, I’m an underground favorite, tearing down stages
So nice, I should have gone platinum more times than the hair on rave kids
And, yet, I’ve stayed with a basic basis for greatness
I rock crowds of Indian cows—my style’s sacred
Take this as an example of the style I spit
Rap music needs some new blood—call me hip hop’s dialysis
Each verse a catalyst for putting talentless lyricists
In paralysis, so I advise you not to challenge this
‘Cause the shit I spit’ll turn even the strongest men into misfits
When I rock, I’ll light the place like Rockefeller Center at Christmas
So I suggest you keep you and your men at a distance
‘Cause they’ll be dead in an instant ‘cause my style burns better than incense
You get dismembered and dismissed. I’m way ahead of you infants
Verbally end your existence, then I’ll wipe my weapon of imprints
Too intense, to leave your mind blown’s what I’m after
I got kids rewiring their tape decks to rewind faster. Shit
This style, I’ve mastered it. The outcome is disasterous
You ain’t no match for this in skills, lyrics, or craftsmanship
Your track is dissed while mines is worth a salary. I keep it real
Like dating ugly girls because you like their personalities
The day you have enough strategy to battle me, that’ll be
Never, but I accept your try as flattery
I know you’re mad at me, but Rok One’ll always get the job done
For me, it ain’t a problem to be nice. Word to God, son
It’s like that. I don’t play no games
I’d like to say, “Peace,” to my motherfucking man James

[Outro: Rok One]
And I’m out. Rok One. Peace to Big Scrap, Dr. Dekay. And I’m out. Take me out