Blizzard vs. Mark Grist

Watch the battle here.

Round One

Blizzard

My last battle was a classic. Now Don't Flop has thrown me in the fucking ditch,
‘cause I don't wanna seem sexist, yet he's only given me another bitch.
(Nothing? Fine.)

Fuck you, Mister Grist! I don't like your lessons no more.
All you talk about is how my attendance is poor,
and you've been on my case more so than ever before,
so I'll give you a left to the jaw if you ever report whatever you saw,
and if I get expelled, be assured that you're getting some more.

You see Mixy as your companion, and you think that he's your buddy,
‘cause you've both got master’s degrees in dick-related studies,
and, yeah, you might have good holidays and be swimming in the money,
but with all that marking you have to do, I bet you wish you was a dummy.
(Mark-ing, you know?)

But hold up, Mixy, I'm taking the mick, see?
You could mix E in my drink and still could never lick me.
I'll make Mix see that the dead poets are history;
I’m like the tenth Olympian, and you're a motherfucking pixie.

When punchlines hit Mark Grist, I know they will mark Grist;
your name is a grain, so of course I'll tear apart Grist.

And I don't care about Dead Poets’ dead poetry;
after this you'll be a corpse under a dead poet tree.

I'm always on the ball; I should be back-heeling.
I won't stop rapping ’til my hands peeling,
and this guy gets sacked for his bad teaching.
If I get gully, you'll feel a pain in your back region;
smashed glass, pain in your back region,
then you'll know what it's like to be on the wrong side of a glass ceiling.

I heard teacher versus student battle, and I wasn't going to class;
I get to battle that nerdy bastard who failed at controlling the class.

You knob-head, I hope you drop dead.
If I punch you in the face, who are you gonna call, Ofsted?

Mark Grist

To those at home who are sitting, watching YouTube, don't start clicking;
I know this might look like some kind of extreme babysitting.
It's actually a rap battle, two grown men lyrically bitching,
just one of us isn't legally old enough to drink inside the building.

And now, Bradley's gonna try and act less infantile,
by pretending that he's proper riled,
so sit back, watch him reconcile with his lack of breastfeeding as a child.

That's why this ugly duckling’s suckling from the teat of any bumpkin
with a beat; all means of dumping his meaningless shit on something.
And the speed of words you're mumbling hides the fact they don't mean nothing.
He may have beat the witch from Oz, but it's time for me to teach this Munchkin.

You will never amount to somebody, and I'm here to raise a grievance.
“Big up everyone whose parents have property in Manchester,”
mate, that's not a fucking achievement.
This Blizzard lizard's got no fire; it's just hot air he's breathing.
When all's said and done, as the years drag on,
you'll look even more like Deborah Meaden.

This rapper's pint-sized; he's cock-eyed.
When he raps, his mouth only actually moves on one side.
He's like a pre-pubescent Popeye,
complete with physique that implies that all the spinach in the world has died.

And look at him try, this poor little chap, like so many anemics I've seen in my class,
dreams of riding up high on a unicorn's back,
while defending the world from an Orcish attack.
You wank off in sandals
to pictures of Gandalf you stack with the mags in your porn stash.
He's got a hard-on for wizards; he only called himself Blizzard
‘cause that's the company that made World of Warcraft.

Round Two

Blizzard

Every bar you've ever spat was a sack of pig shit.
They say that words are weapons; then you must be pacifistic.
I've hated you since the day I first heard you; I was antagonistic,
and this next round is gonna be fucking painful like it's masochistic.

It doesn't take much for me to tell you that you're lame.
That's why you've gotta(got a) die like a board game.

You're trying to act like you're the boss of Don't Flop, like you're Rowan,
acting like you're all-seeing and all-knowing,
but you're in a canoe with no paddles, bitch; it looks like you're rowing,
and I'm gonna get rid of Mark like when Germany brought the Euro in.
(I'll come back to you in a sec, yeah? Don't worry, man.)

Fuck anyone that said my battle with H-Bomb was a stroke of luck.
I just hated being a laughing stock, now I couldn't give a sugar-coated fuck.
I'm feeling drunk off disrespect now, and I've got no plans to sober up.
The same guys that sent me death threats now want to hold my nuts.

The battlers that name-dropped me? I'm scaring ‘em with ease.
I'm an embarrassing pain to them like a venereal disease.
So bring up all your fiction, man, I dare you, do it, please,
‘cause you only talk gas, Mark, on various degrees.

So wave to the camera; you haven't got any hope.
You might as well look up to the sky and ask God for the rope.
It's like I'm looking at JFK's head from an optical scope:
you're the dead president, and I won't stop til you slope.

This battle journey's been insane. Peace, Eurgh, it's still taking me on a trek,
yet this guy's music couldn't even feed him a cheque,
so escape the premises, bitch; you better leave in a sec
before I turn your little classroom into Peterborough Tech.

Mark Grist

Bradley's last battle showcased his innate ability to hurl abuse at women,
and it was so impressive, that I thought that I might mimic him.

A funny thing, online you whinge that your Mum saw your last battle accidentally?
Well I hate to chat crap behind anyone's back, so why not address her directly?

Mrs. Green, Mrs. Green, please move into the screen;
I’ve got some people behind me I'm sure that you've seen.
Gentlemen, say hello to Mrs. Green.

You may not believe me, but you've actually met most of them;
I mean there wasn't much light; you were at a lower height,
kinda slobbering like a doberman.
Those nights out gathering STD’s, while Bradley stayed in collecting Pokemon,
and you beat him by a landslide, ‘cause he only collected most of them.

Mrs. Green, Mrs. Green,
that froth from between your maw’s jaws
dribbles more than an entire football team.

When you sit down, it sounds like a sea lion applauding.
Not many women insert a life-jacket before a young man comes a-boarding.
Every morning, noon and night, those juices they are pouring
’til your thighs, when spread wide, resemble laminate flooring.

Mrs. Green, Mrs. Green, your son's thoughts are obscene;
the truth is you live in his every wet dream.

A seventeen-year-old Oedipus, he fantasizes about each of us,
climaxing more heavily upon you than an Eastenders omnibus.

That's why I'm here to stop this depravity,
point out how wrong it is, the seriousness, the gravity,
explain that more rubber gets burned in your vaginal cavity
than the combined alacrity of every Formula One engine battery.

I'm so sorry about about you, Mrs. Green, and I'm so sorry about Bradley;
I'm doing my best to help him, but he just keeps on trying to attack me.
I'd be pretty pissed off, but he's doing it really fucking badly.

Round Three

Blizzard

I didn't come here for my assessments, Mister Grist;
I came for my rapping endeavors,
so don't you dare think of correcting my grammatical errors.

And we know now you're a teacher, so that needs no further explanation,
but I'm smarter than you think, let me recap on my education.

In Nursery, I was a terror; I made everyone's experience hell.
The only noise that I enjoyed hearing: the bell.

Temper tantrums every day; I used to walk out of the room.
Thirteen years later, I'm here making mountains of moves.

I'm seventeen, education has took up seventy-five percent of my life,
and I hated every second of it. What, you expect me to lie?
I dropped out of college ‘cause I hated that negative vibe,
and it was teachers like you that made me feel aggressive inside.

You're not superior; we're the reason you get the pay that you do,
and if your pass rate is too low, the government are going to take it from you.
This is like Lunar C's SBTV, and you can't say it ain't true;
this is Blizzard vers’ shit teacher, but I get to say it to you.

My scriptures make Samuel Peeps look like any old man in the street,
make Martin Luther want to write another draft of his speech,
make the likes of Oscar Wilde and Confucius sit back and retreat.
Basically, I'm in a class even this man couldn't teach.

I'm pissed off at the haters; other rappers come off kinda sour.
I hate the school system and I'll never plead to a higher power.
You're just a tiny flower that I'll devour with a violent shower,
so fuck you, your campus, your lesson plan, and your £8.95 an hour.

Mark Grist

I suggest that you fuck off, and play some Beyblade
before I slap you with an F grade,
or at least go jack off to some vampires like the rest of your age range.

He's trying to act tougher than me, but I suspect he might be nerdier.
You're about as intimidating as your city, and you're only slightly wordier.

I don't care about the aggressive shit you spit online or that everybody's heard of ya;
you'd still give yourself a hernia trying to assemble flat-pack furniture.

“But I keep dissing him for being a teacher, what have I gotta say so I can shock ya?”
The honest truth is, Bradley, I've been served better whilst in Costa.
I consider it a crime how much time you spend rhyming
about the rest of the Don't Flop opera;
it's a solo gun fight, not some homo-erotic spaghetti opera.

And in Bradley's last battle, he wasn't dreadful,
which means many doubt he even wrote it;
see this young Green plants himself with better rappers,
hopes to get it through osmosis.
The best of ventriloquist dummies; his ass can take on both fists,
then he rides them in so deep as he appears to be riding on their shoulders.

I don't have to write like Socrates to expose your mediocrity,
and considering the pics of the last battle I've seen,
I'm surprised you're not trying to get off with me.

Honestly, Bradley, besides getting date-raped by Australian women
and saying words a little bit quickly, I'm not quite sure what you actually do.
Plus, it's a sad fact that half your iPhone apps are actually older than you.
I'm not gonna deny that after his last battle his reputation grew,
but, if I'm being honest,
I'm gonna have to write, “has to improve” upon this term's review.

Photos by Corin Faife via Don't Flop.

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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