Fresco vs. The Saurus

Full lyrics to the standout battle that earned Fresco performance of the night honors at KOTD's "Back to Baysics 3."

Watch the battle here.

Round One

The Saurus

Fuck a coin flip, I’ll be first to let it pop.

This footage? Like my left hand: worth a second watch.

That’s two-timing if you don’t follow. Kill ‘em all — nobodies to role models,

you don’t gotta do numbers to see the hands like Movado.

You know I’ma tell him how it is, and then I’ma show ya.

Just to back up my point like Dellavedova.

I’m a machine. You ain’t think shit could get any colder?

I’ll dump a can if he press my buttons. Get him a soda.

Bitch I met every quota. Gave proof that I’m Jesus(spanish prounciation).

Always brought the most weight to home plate, boy I’m Babe Ruth.

Since he Italian and I’m greek, they place us in the same group,

but I was raised Lebanese: always stuck to my Bay roots (Beirut).

It’s true, I’m Isaac Mendez: that pen stroke deadly.

Mariah Carey: you ain’t think it would get so heavy.

I got that fresh toast ready for him and Miss Coletti,

like I’m bout to be the best man at Fresco’s wedding.

If you squeamish, y’all should turn away your heads,

‘cause Papa Shango’s back here with a curse to raise the dead.

Once you work away your debts, I’ll be first to take his bread,

tell him break off that paper like a perforated edge.

I’m a loan shark, no sarcasm.

You’ll need sonar tracking ‘cause I’m so far past him.

I’m composing Mozart classics, so don’t start acting

like we in the same boat; I’m the coast guard captain.

What happened though? I thought that you was going places.

Must have had a change of heart like Smokin’ Aces.

Shit I don’t even believe in when he say what race he is,

‘cause these facial features say Enrique Iglesias.

But that there? That ain’t even a racial bar actually,

it’s more alluding to why we think you’re a mark, Anthony.

So stop posting about being a men’s rights activist,

or you ain’t welcome back in the Westside after this.

Fresco

I give a fuck about the battle rap trivia and how much ammo you got.

You can’t rap the way I’m rapping if you haven’t been shot.

But until I get a signed letter from Tupac where he asks me to stop,

I’ma keep pulling this shit like I’m practicing slots.

See I don’t battle a lot, but if the conditions just right, I’m completely airing,

and you might be rolling with Organik, to a decent area,

til his expression goes blank (“Round One”), like he’s the narrator,

and I pop up for the scrap like a secret character.

Flawless what I call this, all I took is a Vick.

Rubber butt up on the rifle just to cushion the kick.

Let the hollow points blossom so the bullets’ll stick.

It’s like I’m playing Minecraft how I’m cooking a brick.

If I get the slightest urge, I’ma look up his chick

so I can send her all the pictures that I took of my dick.

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I’m back on my bullshit, and doing it Big League.

I put his IV(ivy) on the wall ‘cause I grew up at Wrigley.

I leave his trap with chicken scratch like I drew him a squiggly;

I draw different, so there ain’t no way you’re doodling with me.

Family man. They gon have to plan his funeral quickly.

Get your dome split. The whole kit ’n caboodle is with me.

Either the chopper’ll take his wig like he boozing with Britney,

or he get sliced under his ribs like I’m removing a kidney.

I got the kinda bars that you have to give a kidney for.

People bite and try to bait me into something like a fishing lure.

Team full of animals: Starfox 64;

for the cabbage, I’ll spray something Sauvage, it’s not Chris Dior.

Daddy should’ve taught me better. Momma should’ve kissed me more.

Trump Tower of terror, tell your daughter it’s a Disney tour.

People on the ground’ll see her body falling fifty floors.

Even Ripley swore he never seen some shit like this before.

So after I Clapton your kid, you’ll get clapped in the rib.

The way my finger licking shots, he need a napkin and bib.

You’ll get twisted off the top; I will Snapple your lid.

If you actually live, you’ll have something to tell people

and fun facts you can give, like,

did you know that Fresco will push your line back and then raffle your wig,

and let blood cover the wall like The Faculty did?

Pulp Fiction: your girl O.D.ing off of the swag that I give,

and she gon need a chest shot after we crash at the crib.

You should be viral on YouTube. The chicken pox guy.

With a face that’s made from scratch like a chicken pot pie.

Bars easy to catch like you hit a pop fly,

got you looking stupid like your daddy when he didn’t drop by.

Bars clip the whole row behind you, but you gon catch the brunt of it.

Not even the Asian dude from Tianenman Square could stand in front of this.

I’ll make your bitch’s jaw drop, and if she withstand the punishment,

I’ll make her keep that mouth open so I can ash the blunt in it.

Round Two

The Saurus

There ain’t a chance that he can win today. The Bay’s what made a man of me.

Homie, I’m on my Mophie shit: this case could change to battery.

This isn’t anger management, it’s pain and agony.

I’ll kill him, take the stand and get away with it: I’ll Casey Anthony.

Okay, children. He’ll get coached on stage, that’s Craig Nelson.

At our peaks, this is Mount Saint Helen’s to cave dwelling.

Go ahead, click in your seat belt. It ain’t helping,

‘cause that hook’ll make him spin in his chair; he Blake Shelton.

They tell me toe-tagging Fresco won’t happen, ever,

but I’ll take flight, masked up: low cabin pressure.

See his pen’s fire, but sometimes it don’t match his efforts,

so the way he raps is playing catch: he just throws that together.

Never risk-taking, but he must admit, what I did changed him,

‘cause my shit gave him a foundation, I’m brick-laying.

So the more you see this Chris Angel illusion of clips waving,

the more you bout to see money get pressed like inflation.

They been saying I’ll automatically lose if I use gay jokes on him.

But I wouldn’t do that in the Bay so it ain’t no problem,

I don’t need ‘em. Each ‘bow leave him with no feeling,

no coke fiending, just dope lines, I’m O.D.ing.

Ain’t no type of that powder, it’s just firing power;

I’m bout to Flash on him: 88 miles per hour.

The-Saurus-vs-Fresco-lyrics

Even when he’s home, his bitch likes when I pound her;

she hop on it down the street like a wireless router.

You been spiraling downward; it wasn’t a mistake.

So keep bumping them gums, I’ll uppercut you in the face.

Some’ll say I wouldn’t win this if it wasn’t in the Bay,

but you’d get Trumped in every state, no republican debate.

Fresco

You gave birth to off-point comparisons disguised as hard punches,

like, “ho ho, that’s why your heart’s pumping,

‘cause you look like Michael Clark Duncan with his private parts shrunken.”

But my homie with the shit, so if you try to spark something,

he got that Nickelodeon magazine, that means Slime’ll start dumping.

He said, “people think my left is made of metal plated armor..”

I stopped the battle right there and I never made it farther.

He probably said,

“you’re fuckin up the feng shui, you should’ve decorated smarter.

This is not the fade you wanted; I’m your second favorite barber.

See, you just wanna pop a bottle like a celebration starter,

but they’re looking at you funny like an elevator farter.”

It’s lines like that that’ll probably get you relegated, partner,

in your PoRich bag at Ground Zero on a detonation marker.

Now that’s a tiny sample, but a prime example.

You gotta know when to walk away, it’s no time to gamble.

Bum ass flow. Fuck you and anybody taking it,

I been using gun lines since Grind Time when everybody hated it.

He was like,

“all these wack emcees rapping about guns are just as fake as ever.

At least I can frame it better and give a more creative effort;

I can use gun bars and stress the syllables to make it clever,

‘cause he’s known for keeping something tucked like Kaitlyn Jenner.”

You need to take your notebooks and throw ‘em all into a paper shredder.

This shit has been a long time coming; it’s better late than never.

I hardly spend time with my bars, ‘cause I don’t take forever.

Plus I’m stuck in a teenage wasteland

like the Staples Center when the Lakers enter.

Now I’m out for blood; that’s why you losing a liter.

I took my cue(Q) from Doctor Mundo how I threw you a cleaver.

He was in a acting troupe, doing musical theatre,

while I was in a Aston coupe playing musical sweepers.

He say I’m nice. But the feeling isn’t mutual, Peter.

After the last album, Chase Moore don’t want nothing to do with you neither,

I mean, Madness hasn’t called you since you blew up his beeper.

It’s 2015. Your man Greg still ain’t threw you a feature.

He’s known your ass for 20 years and still don’t have a song with you,

so that’s a strong signal that your fans have all dwindled.

Y’all could’ve done a rap-along single for the Amazon Kindle

and had the nursing home turn’t before your grandma called bingo.

You must’ve scratched the wrong pimples, and you have some soft dimples,

so you ugly and soft, I guess the path you on fits you.

I could switch magazines like I grabbed the wrong issue

or leave him crushed in the grill of the black Range like a mastodon hit you.

They say TheSaurus is robbing the cradle. Let’s get to chopping this fable.

I say, keep that shit up for as long as you’re able.

He’s like a card shark sitting at the softest of tables,

trying to lure a sucker in with the comedy angle.

But I wonder what’ll happen when his daughter gets playful:

40 year old man with a little girl you thought was your angel,

in a fully loaded Jag with all the options enabled,

pulling that bitch’s hair back like she wanted a facial.

He’ll probably tell her that he love her and he’s honest and faithful,

but all he want is a quick plug like an optical cable.

So now you’re up at night, looking at the locket she gave you,

‘cause a lonely dad’s the only man that your daughter relates to.

Round Three

The Saurus

I ain’t come to joke around. You know this clown’s been broken down,

and for my local crowd, this is how a closing round’s supposed to sound.

Now watch this, it’s all biz. He don’t know what a cross is

til I drop one on him like a drawbridge.

Shoulda saw this coming. Me punchlining with you?

It’s about be more one-sided than Unbias Review.

You won’t deny that it’s true, just ‘cause i won’t pass the torch;

I’m Bo Jackson: belong in my own class of sport.

I’ll kill him on cam, but it won’t stand in court,

so why go back and forth? Just toe-tag the corpse.

You got no chance. I’ll beat you in your own dang arena.

Charge it to the game? Nope, won’t take his VISA.

You want to throw? I’ll go straight to home plate and greet ya,

I been flipping off the bat, San Jose Bautista.

It don’t take a genius to see your business is foreclosed.

Message delivered in morse code, this is a war zone.

I know you straight, but how you dress? I’ve seen bitches in your clothes.

It’s like you shop in Narnia: you lyin’ which is your wardrobe.

This is more close to a dissection. Try testing,

I’ll right, left, him, then shortcut like Swype texting.

Your time’s ending. Walk over you high-stepping,

headshot make his whole thoughts changes like a life lesson.

Now I’m guessing there’s a reason that you reference ratchets.

Even though you showed up dressed like that chick.

Trying to appeal to two demographics like Lenny Kravitz,

but it’s just theatrics. There’s nothing upstairs but an empty attic.

I will dead this cat, head in a bag like any match they offer.

This was just a short stop in the Bay: I’m Brandon Crawford.

Ain’t no cannon fodder, this cat is softer than behind the candelabra,

now watch your life get cancelled like the time I battled Hoffa.

Two-time champ, I’ll win it two times more,

now I’m back on top of the game like a new high score.

Fresco

You blew up when battles had DJs, but can’t rap to a beat.

That’s like a professional breakdancer that can’t move his feet.

Ugly dude with freestyles. They’re like, “that dude is heat,”

but this was a written battle filmed in HD, which is bad news for Pete.

And my lines’ll be the only lines they quote from it,

so this won’t be a battle where the fans can say we both stunted.

I roll something, pass it to your girl, now she’s so blunted.

She gon give me a little face like the old hundreds.

Red, white, and green diamonds like Italian ice.

Shorty’s so wet on the phone, she need a bag of rice.

You ain’t been popping for a while like a can of Slice.

Seasoned fans took me so they booked me for the added spice.

Now I ain’t even want to use this bar for Pete,

but he lives in the desert, so he should be used to all this heat;

so from Cancun to a sand dune, I roll up on dude and park the jeep,

ready to dump the cans at his buggy like it’s Supermarket Sweep.

I could wake his block up, or let the tech ring silent.

Baby boy, I’m pro-choice, but fuck your left wing bias.

Now that was a check swing. But this next thing’s violent;

I’m bout to open up on him like a X-Wing pilot.

My connect always good; I got extra bandwidth,

and a second plan for anything the weapons can’t fix.

I got money changing hands like Megaman’s fist;

the watch got a second hand; you got a secondhand wrist.

He bout to face another blemish. This the worst you get sweeped,

ashes get swept under the rug like it hurts to give grief.

Supersoaker backpack, squirt the kid brief,

plus they love me in the hood like the first and fifteenth.

I be at the same health club where his chick belong.

She catching pheromones from me at the liptithon.

Yoga mat down, let her suck me like a twisty straw

while she whip her hair back and forth like Dixie Kong.

I’ll take her to the second gym like Misty gone,

and make a movie that star me(Starmie), that’s not Digimon.

No a cappella group, but he gon know what kinda shit we on

when he hear that oowop going just like a 50’s song.

No GPS tracking, but I’m getting Pete traced.

They’ll have to set up a perimeter, and get police tape.

That mean I’ll chalk this boy out. He want to get a clean slate;

I’ll cook him a couple minutes at a time like a Kid Cuisine plate.

I’ll go into black ops mode; now I’m in his team base,

he will not see zombies, but I’ll get his team chased.

Warhammer, forty k’s without the figurine paint,

he get ratchet after ratchet like he did a speed date.

Lieutenant warp nine, put him into deep space

and pitch a bird out the whip like they did in Speed Race.

18 karats on the wrist, with the wintergreen face

and just looking at it giving you that Listerine taste.

For trying to get a buzz off my shit, get you smacked with a flyswatter.

I stay splashing his bitch like she rafting through whitewater.

Back in school, I had the tool in the back of my guy’s locker.

County jail, a young boy got put in a pod like Anakin Skywalker.

He don’t need breaking news to see action from live choppers.

For me it always on sight; even scrapped with my eye doctor.

His bitch on my album cover,

Alex Summers from all the Havoc that I’ve caused her,

but I’ve been through that bitch’s walls so many times

that I’m actually Nightcrawler.

I’m pissed off at people even thinking the match was even.

I mean I should Rerun my rounds cause this is a classic beating.

I’m like Popeye the sailor: I’m gripping a can and squeezing.

Talking out the side of your mouth gon get you the Bambi treatment.

I brought the Thumper in the club. Now it’s switching to rabbit season:

if he Bugs, I’ll get him smoked like Yosemite Sam was creeping.

Morris’ll catch a flashback like he’s sitting in class and dreaming,

while I’m at his bae side, high, like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen.

Mario Lopez is in the building. This is your chance to meet him.

The silencer is Andy Griff how it’s whistling back to greet him.

This is Aladdin dreaming, I’m wishing we had a reason.

I just had to get a couple bands off him before giving him back his freedom.

Lyrics transcribed in full, including slurs and offensive rhetoric in interest of accuracy. Language and views expressed are those of the rappers cited.

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