Caustic vs. Bigg K

Full lyrics to the heated, explosive match that won Battle of the Night honors at KOTD's Back to Baysics 3.

Watch the battle here.

Round One


To keep it real with y’all, I could beat Bigg K in just one verse.

So I’ll be on a roll after I tear him to shreds;

I’m fuckin Lush One’s shirt.

They said don’t sleep on your opponent. That fool K legit.

He’s got haymakers and bars; man that dude say some shit.

Y’all hear him in the preview talking greazy?

Like he just gonna soufflé the kid,

man I haven’t heard you that hyped about a trailer

since you got a new place to live.

But his fans talk about him like he the best kept secret,

like it’s blasphemous; he’s somebody that I could never compete with.

He’s top five, next to... Cyborg Eminem and Redneck Jesus;

Bigg K’s such a fucking thug even his name is on some extra G shit.

But honestly bro, I hate how simple you write.

It’s just a bunch of metaphors, similes and likes,

man, motherfucking cats like you get the fuckin idiots hype,

but you an innocent type. We live a different life,

I mean your delivery’s tight, but dog, you are Deliverance white.

I mean, ten years ago, you wasn’t getting down with the bitches.

Looks like you used to paint your face and get down with the sickness.

He said he’s got Walmart lines; well that would explained this discounted image.

But you can’t fuck with my brand: this Target ‘ll put Big(g) K out of business.

You are the worst kind of white. That’s why your lines are not good.

This shit’s like South Park: no one understands when Kenny tries to talk hood.

Two years ago, you used to call us all nerds, but I guess he rock with us now,

but if he says a line that don’t get reaction,

then it’s something wrong with the crowd.

You like to talk while people rapping. Oh my god, you’re a clown.

I’ll put a pistol in his mouth. Let’s see him talk through my rounds.

B2B3 Caustic vs. Bigg K
Bitch, I’ll be stalking your house. While you sleeping all alone.

Feel the steel against your dome while you’re reaching for the phone.

He said I got a geek squad. But ain’t no trouble(-)shooting people in your home.

You don’t know my history, dog. I’m incognito with the Chrome.

(He doesn’t even fucking get it, that’s how fucking stupid he is.)

He thinks he’s Nino with the blow, so he deserves what he’s getting.

Shit, you wasn’t locked down for that long, dog, I heard you was snitching.

Oh look at him shaking his head, like you wasn’t a fucking nerd up in prison.

I bet you get checked on sight(site) like terms and conditions.

Dog, people talk like you’re the best, but you are honestly the worst.

Why don’t you go spit some more Digimon bars and then call us all nerds?

So keep this shit rap, and do not talk through my verse,

before I have to make a split decision

about which chin I’m gonna fuckin sock you in first.

Bigg K

Hey yo Caustic. Your nose look like a guitar pick.

Nah, it look like your pops is half swordfish.

My shit rip through bricks and make floor rip,

this a match you ain’t fit for; you should forfeit.

Four-four bulldog or the four-fifth.

Money’ll get a magazine: that’s the Forbes list.

You dead. I’m picking up a box: that’s a forklift.

You softer than Norbes fist; I’m strong as a horse kick.

B2B3 Caustic vs. Bigg K

You rely on personals and disrespect.

‘Cause if you was to just spit, we’ll feel a disconnect.

I rap. You a comedian. Hit your set.

You just a funny, low-life piece of shit, at best.

You gon need Arcane to come and write your verse.

Remember when Soul duffed you? I’ll do you twice as worse.

Rip your throat open; put this knife to work.

The doc’s gon have to button around your neck like life alert.

Big Berettas. The kickbacks ain’t get-togethers.

Twin M-9’s, look like you trying to knit a sweater.

If he bugging, I get to spraying: that’s the citronella.

And one pump can split a pumpkin like Cinderella.

It’s gray hairs in your beard; you should get some gel-a.

You rocking the Salt-N-Pepa like Spinderella.

Bang. While you rip the leaf off a ciga-rella,

you’ll catch a bullet in the teeth like Penn and Teller.

So say my gun bars is fake. Question my thug affiliation.

I went to prison for armed robbery and assault with a firearm;

that’s public information.

But I’m ‘posed to believe he evil and got a gun in the briefcase,

‘cause he scream when he rapping and put on the mean face?

Look man, you walked in a loser. I get the win on arrival.

Jesus Christ, K the god, I go across your shit with a bible.

You gon realize you ain’t fit for survival

once you get the chance to spit with your idol,

and this is a big ass G check like Illmac winning the title.

Now open with a rebuttal. Bring some clown to the vibe.

Dickride the Bay Area to keep the crowd on your side.

But y’all put up a Warhol against a fucking cornball.

You had the whole time I was rapping to think of four bars. Go ahead.

Round Two


It’s exactly what I expected: bunch of death threats that didn’t mean a thing at all.

I guess the story goes,

if you’ve seen one Bigg K verse, then I guess you’ve seen ‘em all.

I’ll make a deal with all of y’all.

If he can go the next round without saying the word “like”, I will retire from rap.

He thinks he’s Dr. fucking Dre, it’s all “like” this and “like” that.

But you didn’t sound like that in ’09. Shit you didn’t rhyme like that.

Not when you was begging me for battles back in GrindTimeChat.

Shit, I know this guy like that. Me and dude got a history.

I opened doors for this bitch, I guess you could call it chivalry.

I’m trash? Bitch, you trash. You gotta be kidding me.

Whoever dropped you off at the event should’ve got a ticket for littering.

All he talk about is video games and cartoons,

and y’all swear like his bars are the hardest,

but it’s honestly kinda what I expected from someone I legit thought was retarded.

And I swear to fucking god, if this fat piece of shit keeps calling me garbage,

I’ll put sweepers on his helmet like he’s Marvin the Martian.

I said fuck his size, I’m this high, I’ll kill his style with two bars.

Said even we inside, let’s fist fight til your left eye is f.u.b.a.r.

Oh now your lips dry, can’t spit rhymes, get this guy a cue card.

See you can’t do what I do but I’m pretty sure I’m better at your style than you are.

So what you wanna do, dog? This your funeral, K.

You’re a big fat nervous nail-biting motherfucker; how them cuticles taste?

Dog, y’all really think K’s a gangster with a tool in his waist,

but I’m a real estate agent: you make a move, and I’ll put you in your place.

I keep my cash in a shoebox. No revenue’s in the banks.

I don’t care if money gets locked up, then this dude isn’t safe.

You a counterfeit. A little light behind him will prove that he’s fake,

and y’all can count on me to keep it one hundred until I’m blue in the face.

Yo he does a little thing every time that I rhyme;

I dunno if I’m battling somebody or fucking fighting a fucking mime.

Yeah, I’ma keep it one hundred with y’all.

Anybody this fucking big should not be a coward.

Dog, I don’t know if I’m trying to battle rap somebody

or fucking argue with the bouncer.

Dog, he claims to be a boss that spits fire, but his punches don’t got any power,

so it makes a lot of sense that you and Illmac looked like Mario versus Bowser.

Honestly, I fell asleep through half of your rounds.

I mean if you keep stepping up, I’ma keep backing him down.

But I’m back now, the man they’ve been asking about,

I say fuck Illmaculate, I should be the champion now.

B2B3 Caustic vs. Bigg K

Shut the fuck up. As if you had any doubt.

Dog, if he the man of the house, then I’m grabbing his spouse,

put a gag in her mouth and fucking dragging her out.

I’ll yoke that bitch up while her panties are down

and slide a dick in her ass while I’m tapping her out.

See I’m the dude that live the shit that you be rapping about.

See I don’t normally rap but I had to make an example out of the clown,

look at him, nervous. You can see the sweat damping his brow,

somebody pass him a towel

like Th3 Saga when he’s logging onto his Brazzers account.

It’s in god’s hands now, bitch, what them passwords about?

Bigg K

When we first met, he said, “Fam, you nice, K.”

And I appreciate that, you fake ass Andrew Dice Clay.

Look, straight to the money once I land: two-night stay.

I will pop you cold square in the mouth like a brand new ice tray.

Razor to your face, get severed in cold cuts.

You soft. Peanut butter and jelly with no crust.

A two-piece, then you ‘sleep. I can tell he’a fold up.

Do something. I will smack the gel out your bowl cut.

I grind the whole winter, through the cold and fleece;

I’m blowing sticky like a hippie, holding the piece(peace).

You think you fast as lightning, toe to toe with a beast,

just ‘cause you got a haircut like Travolta in Grease.

What you know about grinding and ducking raids when the feds sweep?

You blow that big ass nose with a bed sheet.


They threw your ass in a shark tank; you dead meat.

You’ll be your homies’ chest piece by the next week.

I talk it ‘cause I live it; you don’t live it to talk it.

Hit the compartment, click it, then I click it and spark it.

Two eights, roommates: they’ll split your apartment.

Enter the gauntlet. This the strongest shit on the market.

This idiot Caustic lost it. He ain’t no type thug.

Get a bright idea, I will break your light bulb.

Make this Italian speak Spanish before I take your life, blood,

‘cause you gon give this floor a kiss, in Beso Nightclub.

Skip the babbling. Before rap, I was in the Radisson.

O.T. with my O.G., really trafficking.

Breaking down, bagging up, clipping, packaging,

and wasn’t stepping up in your spot ‘less I get the ratchet in,

so stick to battling. I hit harder than fifty javelins.

I took Caustic in the Bay ‘cause I’m into traveling.

You need the hometown support; I ain’t really mad at ‘im.

I bring that fire shit to your porch: Billy Madison.

Round Three


I am sick and fucking tired of them saying Bigg K talks that real shit.

So I think it’s high time I pulled your card, you giant fucking Garbage Pail Kid.

Y’all heard him in the trailer hating. Saying that my angles is a crutch.

But you’re basically saying that you’re not creative enough

to find a specific way to say that I suck.

I mean, you could say the same, but you playing gangster too much,

so here’s a fucking angle for you, K, you tell me if I’m making it up.

So me and you got cool around when you lost -- and I lost --,

so please believe that I meant that shit when I called us homies.

It’s hard me to stand up here and even call him phony.

But what the sad part is is that my own boys really do not know me.

I lost my dad when I was five. I lost my brother when I was eight.

I lost a couple homies this year, I just had to shoulder the weight.

I don’t even blink no more, dog, this shit happens every day,

but y’all keep trying to make this battle rap shit real.

Man, this battle rap shit is my escape.

Man, it’s because all you fucking battle cats are fake.

Acting like you don’t got an emotional side.

Honestly dog,

I think about my dead homies every morning the second I open my eyes.

So if I ever fucking push you away or act different then don’t be surprised;

I do it for your own good, K, ‘cause everybody close to me dies.

I remember back in the day when I didn’t have any rights.

In and out of group homes and jail for over half of my life.

Before I was taking this battle rap shit to new heights

I was taking baby steps because my shackles was too tight.

So nowadays everybody acts like it’s cool to be a criminal with wealth.

But every time you rap I just hear a bunch of bars about you snitching on yourself.

Dog, a lot of people know me from outside of this shit.

Including you, K. And you know I don’t like to glorify the type of lifestyle that I live,

I mean I never did this shit to be cool. I was just trying to provide for my kid,

‘cause if he needed it

I would honestly give him the lung straight from inside of my ribs.

But this guy. This guy. Man this guy isn’t it.

You serve dime bags and shit. You don’t understand breaking pies into zips

and trying to add just the right amount of cut to maximize what you get.

Dog, you don’t know that feeling when the five-o pulls up alongside of your whip,

and he’s giving you the eye because you’re higher than shit,

hiding your sweat ‘cause you’re three deep in the deep East

and you got a trunk with a disconnected Alpine full of bricks.

And you think your little fucking rap lines gonna hit?

There’s nothing you can say to me.

I will let you walk a mile in my shoes just so you’re a mile a-fuckin-way from me.

So for those that don’t know me, this some shit you’ve never heard before.

I keep that part of my life separate because I prefer to work alone.

You try to dig your little dirt but I am cleaner than a germaphobe,

and you about to get so much work I should’ve hit you from my burner phone.

I’ve met all my heroes. And they all say I’m the dude.

You just write a bunch of shit you saw in movies and you fake like it’s true.

I didn’t bring you all the way to San Jose just so I could play-fight with you,

this ain’t no viral pity party like fuckin Daylyt and Oops.

So I bet you sound real cool to them little kids that never struggled,

but I just wanted to reminded you what you sound like

to those of us that really hustle.

Bigg K

Daniel take your pick: revolver or a slice,

I got the hammer and the pick, like I’m carving out of ice.

See I could bar you to death, but that’ll hardly be a fight,

so I’ma use this third round to talk about your life.

You brought me to your house. Say that isn’t facts.

You got a grown man roommate. Just two dudes, kicking back.

That don’t mean they licking sacks, that ain’t what I’m getting at,

but they got a fucking kitty cat. Dog, what type of shit is that?

But I guess when you’re Mr. Disrespect, that’s how you do things.

Walk around Oakland with a cat on a shoestring.

Got the nerve to talk crazy and be kicking that wild shit.

Knowing that your living room smell like Meow Mix.

You kiss that cat in the mouth, and put it in your purse.

Before you allowed to eat, you gotta make his dinner first.

You on Twitter popping off like you gon get at Surf.

You feeling Evil ‘cause you pen a verse stroking Mr. Bigglesworth.

I will Petey Pablo that little shit, it stinks.

Skin it alive and sew a fucking midget mink.

You in the house overflowing your kitchen sink,

struggling trying to give a bath to Mister Jinx.

How you a stray pet back tickler but yet he raps sinister?

You tried to trace a day in my steps, you’d snap fibulae.

Fuck these racist fans that say we rap similar;

I bark with the big dogs. You a cat whisperer.

It pisses in your bed. Made you buy an extra sheet.

It purrs on your chest while you cry yourself to sleep.

You’s a motherfucking girl. You done made your choice,

and you battle ‘cause it’s the only time you get to raise your voice.

So stop lying like you mean. You fronting, that isn’t facts.

Ain’t hustling in the rap or running in with a strap.

Next time y’all hear Caustic thugging up in his raps,

just picture him and his roommate on the couch, cuddled up with a cat.

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

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