Aye Verb vs. Hitman Holla

Full lyrics to this epic, now-legendary 2012 URL clash for St. Louis supremacy.

Watch the battle here.

Round One

Hitman Holla

Aye Verb vers’ Charlie Clips:

he said, “If a nigga wanna see that Holla and Verb,
put that money up, and I will not serve.”
So what the fuck are we battling for, Verb?
Those few bars alone already prove you not a man to your word.

You created who, me? Nigga, I perfected my grind,
‘cause Word War was yours, but it was technically mines.

I had the most wins, won the most money, battles stayed packed,
did the most views, I’m just naming facts,

but the long story short, for the people that wanna know,
it was Aye Verb’s stage. Your boy just took over the show.

This ain’t for the king of the city, I did this for whatever cash,
‘cause I can’t take a crown from him that he never had.
We could take to streets or keep it rap. It’s whatever Chaz,
but make the wrong choice, you gon leave here in a leather bag.

Aye Pops, niggas calling my phone, I’m like, “y'all don’t know nathin’.”
Handle what situation, Aye Verb? I got a degree in communications.

Hip thing off the dresser, I wish you would test us,
boy, I’ll expose Verb like a English professor.

You probably got a step on me in lyrics. That’s what you do the most,
but delivery and quotes? Ain’t even close.
Performance? I got you beat by a hundred bolts.
They laugh at you, not with you, you motherfucking joke.

Now I could’ve got personal, but I chose not.
And it’s BMG gang; we something you hoes not.
Close curtain how you get certainly closed in a box;
better do some soul searching or get your soul shot.
You will never run the streets, nigga, I’m a roadblock.

A couple niggas wanna call your bluff. I should auction you,
but I told niggas he cool. That’s what bosses do.
But watch what you say in your rhymes. Be cautious, dude,
‘cause I’ll forget it’s rap and stop your verse like, “who you talking to?”

It ain’t a street bone in his body, he’s not what he seem.
I punch niggas with no warning; been snapping since a teen.
And you look kind of confused; let me show you what that mean.
My set no playground, so I ain’t gotta get pushed for me to swing.

It’s a lot of weapons I could slay y'all with.
The black gloves, rubber grip with the radar chip.
I’ll come to one of Verb parties with a A.R. clip,
and shoot soon as I get in like I’m J.R. Smith.
Fuck it, I'ma remix it:
It’s a lot of weapons I could slay y'all with.
The black gloves, rubber grip with the radar chip. (x2)
I’ll come to one of Verb parties with a A.R. clip,
and shoot soon-and shoot soon-and shoot soon-and shoot soon-
and shoot soon as I get in like I’m J.R. Smith.

Matter fact you a bitch, man up, you need to bark when you bite.
You was a sucka back then; you a sucka tonight.
At any time you feel tempted, it’s nothing to fight.
I cut his ring off; my footwork tougher than Mike’s.
By the time that you agree, you get snuffed with a right.
You marketable; I’m remarkable. We’re nothing alike.
And you act the way you act because your mother’s a dyke.
(Throw some racks up?) when I rap; it’s fucking advice.

I ain’t an STL rookie my nigga; they threw the best on him.
Looking around, where the niggas that put the vets on him?
Let the caps fly on stage, go Rex on him.
Cash on his head, got money orders and checks on him.
Nigga you a bitch, no reason to pull a Tec on him;
I’ll put him way in the hole, I’ll in-debt homie.

You old ass clown, just an old ass noun,
let a young nigga shine. Sit your old ass down.

I know I said I could’ve got personal, but I chose not.
I was talking first round; second round, it gets hot.
Ballgame.

Aye Verb

A nigga hit me up and told me, “Verb, Holla on YouTube dissing you.”
My first thoughts, “Holla? Nada, my nigga, go get a clearer view.”

He said “It’s Holla, I’m watching. Go watch it.” Instantly I got hot,
like, “This emotional, seven-day menstrual move weak pencil move
having, disloyal, bitch-made, fool-ass punk, this snake (inaudible)”

Clicked the link to the interview, to see what he trying to get into,
and this nigga says, “I’m mad at Verb 'cause he ain’t come to my Arsonal battle;
he ain’t call me in seven months.” Some shit a bitch’d do.
It’s pitiful how a million views could change Holla to a different dude,
but to me, he still that same bird-ass nigga
who never got bread, not even pigeon food.
He down, he call me for the loan. He who I give it to.
When his baby mama cheating on him with other niggas pitching woop,
I’m the shoulder he cry on; I’m the nigga who listen to.
Despicable, 'cause this lil’ nigga, I used to fuck with,
even would’ve gave my liver to. Nah.. that isn’t true.
But anywho, I gotta lynch this fool,
throw him in hot water like instant food. Heavy line; instant “ooo”.
Y'all got him chose, I get him chewed. This bitch confused,
‘cause round here, I got the motherfucking juice. Bars. Nigga, I’m witch’s brew.
Lyrical chikka-boom, give him another hole to whistle through.
Aim that cannon(Canon), flash, steel(still) shot, no picture booth.
Holla, killing you gon hurt me way more than it’s gon get to you.

I carefully crafted these rounds. Later, give him that lyrical shower; first,
for the villain to beat the superhero, you gotta strip him off his power first.

Reality check, Holla: you are not a young star, dog.
You’re twenty-four, and in December, you just bought your first car, dog.
Reality check, Holla: you a motherfucking fraud, dog,
but nigga, you’re so fraud, you don’t even know that you’re a fraud, dog

Reality check, Holla, and I really have to check that.
You are not, I repeat, you are not from the Westside.
You’re from Hazelwood, so throw up your H, bitch, and rep that!

Reality check, Holla. Before this battle shit kicked off,
you talking to bitches? Nah. Hitting bad broads? Hah.
You ugly ass little boy, you have the swagger of a guard dog.
Reality check, Holla.
You was a part of team from St. Louis before I kicked you out that squad, dog,
for taking too many shots, Mr. Ballgame, you’re a ball hog.

Reality check, Holla. He tell niggas he had a shootout
so y'all won’t think that he weak.
But he ain’t tell you, he was shooting that rusty thirty-eight
in the air from across the street.

And the niggas he was playing with, they was gonna smoke you.
But I called and asked for a pass, 'cause you was dumb with no culture.

I ain’t wanna see you dead or in a cell, you fucking fool.
But y'all, don’t score my last two bars. That’s just what a real nigga do.

Showtiiiiiime. On everything, I show Holla some shit he never seen.
Rewrite his life movie and put a scary scream in every scene.
A couple rings out that left ‘d make a levy lean.
When it’s war, I go heavy fiend: get that pipe, I smoke anything and everything.

Your little maggot frame get a casket.
Your little average dame, get bagged and banged
What you gon do? Slide up on me like baggage claim?
I go and get that stee(a)l, little nigga, I play the passing lane.

I’m in a cocky mood.
I’m beating up on this dead meat; I’m in that Rocky mood.
So our boy dropped you,
you went and hopped on Nelly dick faster than Ashanti do.

Round Two

Hitman Holla

If you know anything about Hitman,
then you should know that I don’t mess around,
and when it come to this battle shit,
I do a lot of exposing in the second rounds.

First off, I told you in advance that you never stood a chance.
I’m greeted by demand,
and you can’t pull my card 'cause the city know my hand.

Speaking of hands, you and I both know that you never got choked.
You and I both know that whole rumor was a joke.
But the shit that you did had me heated through the charts;
I'ma tell y'all the reason he ain’t come with me for Ars.

Hanz had Verb spooked, I’m talking real bad.
I called Verb every day, after school, after class,
like, “Yo, you get your ticket? It’s about to go down,”
and he said every time, “I’m online now.”

But wait. I called the night before, he ain’t even call back.
Text me in the morning on some shit like, “I'ma fall back.”
If that ain’t phony or shady, then what you call that?
Respect that I once had for you, I want it all back.

Let me talk to this nigga, man.
Nobody give a fuck that your resume with the heavyweights
when you walk around with a heart that belong with featherweights.

Verb, nobody give a fuck that you fucking all of the ladies
when every battle rapper consider you as a lady.

Verb. And the nigga that protect you not gon come and help you,
or come to your rescue, 'cause I’m his nephew.

So all that guap game gon protect you? That’s so not the case,
‘cause where the fuck was Chase when you was getting chased?
You ran out of state, and punched in the face, on camera trying to escape,
man you so fucking— wait…

You mean to tell me, a nigga punched you in your mouth,
and all you did was pout? What’s that?
Now I ain’t saying walk around the city like a tough cat,
but it’s rules you learn as a kid; fuck rap.
A nigga curse you, it’s mandatory that you cuss back.
A nigga rush you, it’s mandatory that you rush back.
A nigga shoot at you, it’s mandatory that you bust back.
A nigga touch you, it’s mandatory that you touch back.

And you did a song with GSI behind Keith Wine(?) back,
and he used to give you money. Never mind, besides that,
you did some shit then showed you don’t want no contact.
GSI bombed first, when are you gon bomb back?
Let a nigga touch me. Tremaine, where them nines at?
We got ‘em. Banana clip, Mardi Gras, time strap,
(inaudible), shotgun, playboy, don’t never care.
All you here is “yett yett”, then blood flying everywhere.

I was the man at fourteen. I do what I does.
Before you battled SB, the Lou ain’t know who you was.

Limelight. We was trill, gangbanging for real. Niggas was getting killed.
We was out doing that, you was out at the Mills,
trying to sell jewelry, belts, watches, and heels,
(inaudible) on my son, I’m for real.

St. Louis, what the hell?
Y'all praise a nigga that tried to blackball Street Status from URL?

Oh, that’s on my son grandpap.
The nigga called my jack like, “Street Status is wack.
Wait 'til I call Smack; on a URL stage them niggas ‘d never rap.”
I hate to say it St. Louis, but that’s a motherfucking fact.

Aye Verb clown; this choppa ‘ll lay this nerd down
Let’s talk about that parking lot situ-uuugh. I'ma save that for the third round.

You old ass clown, just an old ass noun,
let a young nigga shine. Sit your old ass down.

Aye Verb

Now this the round when I get lyrical.
I ride up on Holla like a car, and put lead in him like a pencil.

What? Them last bars, they didn’t stick like that?
But y'all scream and go crazy when he say shit like that.

Explain me this 'cause I don’t get it yet.
You rep Westside, Blood gang, 50-100 block, (Kates) and (Isrite),
right? Right? But how? 'Cause little nigga, that’s a Crip set.

But let me guess, since you do so much Westsiding and bloop-blooping,
that they just gon let you Soo-woop it, right?
Bitch, you sound stupid.

It’s sucka in you Holla, real niggas can read that shit.
Plus it’s coward in you too, 'cause you bleed that shit.
I ride on niggas like a gangster with just me, that’s it.
If this was football, I’d be Barry Sanders. You’d be Emmitt Smith.
'Cause you run behind your block; I don’t need that shit.

If I catch him outside and tell this bitch nigga, “man up,”
he gon’ be like, “mannn..” Man, what?
“I’m just saying Verb, on my mama, ball game
Wait 'til my mama get here. Wait 'til my mama get here.”

Man, shut up little nigga, you ain’t reckless. You bang? Never.
I’m a one-man slave special, get your whole gang wet up.
I come to you first, then all they cribs: I’m like a chain letter.

You on that sizzy? Look, brother, this my house, heathen.
You lizard looking motherfucker. Mouse eater.

How you gon stand here and belittle niggas,
when you run around screaming, “you see me” for Murphy Lee?
Don’t nobody see him, so you just a little nigga’s little nigga.

I’m a grown man, Holla. I’m almost 30, a boss.
You ain’t street; they think you street because you dirty and dark.
You ain’t a killer, you a dolphin: you just related to sharks.

I grab that eagle, let it fly until that birdy get lost.
Fuck it, be soft, dog. Mardi Gras parade in reverse:
I throw something, he catch it, and then it take his top off.
This lyrical hot sauce, should I stop? Nah, watch:

I made you and I made me.
They see you and be like “who?” They see me and be like “G.”

The club play you, but they pay me, so where the fuck is your fame?
It’s like I was playing Mortal Kombat on Sega Genesis with your career,
and pressed A, B, A, C, A, B, B, 'cause I put blood in the game.

Now let that marinate. My spot permanent, it’s very straight
Slow it down. My spot perm in it; it’s very straight
You a ground-level featherweight
fucking with a heavyweight that can mid-round levitate.
Forty got seventeen; you take five like I told you take a break.

Nah, let’s take that back.
He say I’m over the hill. Damn, ain’t that strange.
I come with a gun that’s Grant’s age.
Scope on it, go on a rampage, and get to shooting from Durant range.
Big boy bars. Stay in your ant lane.

Round Three

Hitman Holla

Knock, knock. You know what that mean, I’m back on my bullshit.
Bow. They say they want the Hitman back; I’m on my old shit.

Now I’m in his crib, his granny up by her toes shit.
Where his newborn? I stuff him up in the stove shit.
Auntie throat slit, yeah, out of control shit. Oh shit,

Ars treatment.

What up, Chaz? With all them weapons and them things you shoot,
I saw that footage and you got some explaining to do.
How many niggas chased you, was it two?
Some brown skin nigga with waves, was it you?

The camera don’t lie, if you watch and see.
It’s some URL battle rap nigga running through a park again.
People, his name start with a C.

Fuck it, let’s get straight to the facts, Verb.
Them niggas that chased you is right by that bar.
Go ahead, chase them niggas back, Verb.

Smack, you got (inaudible) of them guns, you better warn him.
I ain’t saving no more rappers, I’m killing all them.
I load up that Mac like I’m putting air in a Spalding.
Blaow. Run up on me, you leave crawling.
I’m eating real well. I could tell you starving.
But fuck rap, let’s get it on: Marvin.
Niggas know the deal, I’m too Ill. Marlon,
he’s soft. He see me and change up like a Marlin.

(inaudible) baddest. I came up the fastest,
but fuck top tier, give me that underdog status.
I walked in, hugs from the bitches. The baddest.
He walked in, tragic. No looks: Magic.
(inaudible), I’m a motherfucking savage.
For(‘fore) the Bills, I turn into a Gator like Brandon.

All this battle rapping and you broke? No bank account on Chase?
Saint Louis, slow it down.
I said all this battle rapping and he broke, no bank. Aye count on Chase.

Come on Verb, like, out of all people, you know, I do not play.
So you can save all that cool shit for a hot date.
How you feel (inaudible) and then the knot play.
How you want it, chalked up, or picked up the mop way?
Found in a swimming pool, or left under the dockway?
Head coach style, go listen to what the Doc say.
Female bitch, should’ve listened to what your pops say.
One of us the face of the Lou, and he is not gay.

A quick snipe. I’ll let two go blaow.
He’ll leave the city to play with Angels, Pujols style.

Calicoe, put on a Ballgame shirt 'cause I’m repping you; I feel that.
Blackface said I’m one of his faves, this a trill fact.
It’s my second time making top tier feel wack
‘cause it’s a difference between metaphors and real rap.

Aye Verb can’t keep up with the baddest.
Maybe my nigga Ill, but I got stronger after Street Status.

Saint Louis, what up? I show him what a college thug 'bout.
Right jab, something like lightning, I knock a bulb out.
I’m talking right now, I don’t give a fuck what you was 'bout.
Grown man what? This a grizzly to a cub scout.
You supposed to be a boss? Well tell Smack bring the gloves out.

Old ass clown, just an old ass noun,
let a young nigga shine. Sit your old ass down.
Ballgame.

Aye Verb

Holla, you such a fraud, aren’t you?
A nigga swung on me when I had a cast on, my foot was just broke,
but when Twin swung on you, you just broke.
It wasn’t a broken bone on you.

Truthfully, everybody knew that it was nothing that you can do with me.
The test was, could I kill you beautifully and leave here without a bruise on me.
You ain’t moving me. Bitch get worried;
my last round was your obituary. This one is your eulogy.
You a snake in the grass, Holla.
But how you gon hide in that grass once I remove the weed
and everyone can view and see?
You might not get it now but at the end of this round, you’ll see.

Real quick, if we was slaves and had a New York slave master,
and the master came and said,
“Now, which one of you country negroes wanna be my new house nigga?”
He ’d kneel quick. I get to picking my cotton, I’m on that field shit.
I’m driving Saint Lou to success. You made the wheel shift.
I’m trying to destroy these New York niggas; he trying to build shit.
I knew one day, this was gon be a match I had to deal with.
I blame me. I should’ve stopped you before you got started, like a kill switch.
You made fun of Arsonal for driving that school bus to feed his people?
That ain’t real shit.
But you riding with all these kids like you on a motherfucking field trip.
I will get that tool and let it rip,
go to work and put a drill bit in every nigga that you chill with.
And I throw a steel fist, you never will, bitch.
We never saw, we just heard you a swinger. Nigga, you Will Smith.

If this was Menace II Society, you know who the fuck that we are?
I be OG Wax; Ill, O-Dog; this nigga Caine, like, “Look man,
I’m just trying to do my thang, I ain’t dissing no East Coast niggas, alright?”
Nigga, get the fuck out the car.

See, to y'all, he may appear cool. I know him, so I don’t feel dude.
Your character’s similar to flea market, Holla: ain’t nothing real in you.

You make me mad, 'cause you use this hood act like it’s a fad,
throw up your red rag and sag,

and say “on my momma” behind everything,
but you got everything a nigga who come from nothing never had.

You got a momma and a dad. You’re privileged, but you're too ignorant to admit it.
Holla, seventy-five percent of black fathers don’t even visit.

I been to your crib many times. That shit roses and bubbles.
I watched your momma hug you. But your father doesn’t love you.

‘Cause he let you be a sucker.
When a father loves his son and the son means the world to the father,
son get to going down that road, you grab him up by that collar,
like, “Listen, your name Gerald. Let’s chill with all this Holla.

You a athlete with no rap sheet.
You ain’t ever clip rounds or bust a zip down, hoe sit down.

You ain’t never been in a dope house where the dope fiends smoke up,
see that thick cloud, smell that aroma, and almost throw up.

You ain’t never had to hustle, get a pack and swear it came from the border,
that shit don’t lock up, you hit the block up and still get it off to the snorters.

See, I worked all my life so that life you never would see,
so when you claim you from the hood, that’s disrespectful to me.

I married your momma as a chess move.
I ain’t wanna see you getting stepped to by some step-dude.
Yes fool, I kept you in the best shoes, put you in the best schools.

Stop telling people that the mob is your crew,
‘cause when the mob fuck niggas up,
them niggas that they fuck up, they only know you.

So nigga, stop getting on camera saying you popping them guns.”
Aye Big Gerald! That’s the way you talk to your son.

Every time I see your face, I envision a rage.
I wanna get me a blade and hit your chest til it resemble a maze.
I tell my niggas "promote that choppa”, that mean give it a raise,
and let it get wild like Jerry Springer, every time he put the niggas on stage.

I want him dead, I get him well hunted.

Twelve shooters, hundred round drums, this fool done.
Run up on Gerald, give Mr. Fulton that full ton.

I took this battle for the bread and to get this shit clear.
Denzel voice from Training Day. “Nigga you just live here; I run shit here!”
Ballgame.

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

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