Daylyt vs. O-Red

Full lyrics to this standout battle from GO-Rilla Warfare's "Crown 2" event.

Watch the battle here.

Round One


Let’s put all these suckas dodging Lyt in one circle.
You who I got to bite next for sho, Red.
So I brought a perfect round for this bloodsucker, O Red.

What’s popping, B? I hear you popping, B.
Well where I’m from, even stars get a round for that flag: thirteen colonies.
That’s food for thought on your plate, O(Plato). Socrates with philosophy.
Keep it going? I kick that shit: soccer cleat.
Keep it going? Any rapper I de-feat, Wu Tang, that mean I’m Wallabee.
Keep it going? Grape street, my Mobb Deep, causing Havoc, the prouder G(Prodigy).

It take one eye to see(Odyssey), even the oddest see I— you be killing me.
When you rap, the shit sound like a soliloquy.
You very’ Pat Stay: you out your cotton-picking mind thinking you whipping me.
It’s three rounds; your three stories won’t make you triller, G(trilogy).
Chicago. Y’all ready for me to kill this geek?

Say no more. Let’s rock, Davone. Hope you like Papa John’s,
‘cause tonight that’s what you eating, and I’m treating.
Bitch you hear what I’m speaking but you ain’t peeping it. Can I translate it for him?
That mean if you try angles(triangles) in your rounds you’ll get boxed;
Red rounds over the top, I’ll pepperoni your piece of(pizza).


Hold on. Ain’t Kannon on the team you with?
Well I’m just saying, when I snapped in Chiraq he had a front seat to it.
How it’s me you get? I see the shit. Devious. Paul paid me to get Peter picked.
Ironic how your team’ll get freezing stiff when that heater lift.
Have every Grape here(hair) on lock; Wiz Khalifa shit.
That shotty have bodies looking like cheetah print.
Your team ain’t cut too solid, so when they see your caesar split, them C’s ‘a split.

Rican clip: I’ll bend day.
For the mucho dinero or pesos, fuego. Ay dos mío, I can see in Day. Comprende?
(Cortez got that.) This toon fucked. Hentai.
If Red face you here(hair), I’ll crack a(cracka) battle rapper with a Bigg K.
One through the middle of this weak(week) nigga.
Fuck up your winds, Day(Wednesday).
Got to aim six inches below the target when the shit spray.
The chopper(chop a) half of a foot off: Kunta Kinte.

I’ll bag cans for your six pack. I’m Corona Lite
with a Carol Anne clip, that mean that shit’ll go in Lyt, no Poltergeist.
I’ll take his blade, hold it tight, and stab you with your homie knife,
if you don’t jet, I(jedi), use Lyt saber, I’m Yoda nice.

Tonight, I’m a demon,
dropping thirty. This gon be rack, tree-oh, I’m making Day lie(De La), Souls is leaving.
A pair of docs you’ll be needing for the paradox of me squeezing.
Meaning if I spit a round, you’ll catch it and be sleeping.
This magazine that I got National Geographic:
headshot from the Lama for the issue. Push his beak in(beacon),

Send Lyt to the sky. I’m just trying to get a signal. Official. His life deaded.
Acting dizzy in the dome, I’ll put a bullet in Day’s(daze),
now heaven’s gate is where Lyt headed(lightheaded).

Nah, you ain’t make me mad, I’m sorry, my nigga. I just got to do you bad.
Since you Spawn and I’m dog, it’s only right that I Spaz.

You’ll get shot in front your son, king. When that burner bang,
leave a grape splattered all over his Prince. What’s that? Purple Rain.

I call this shit “kicks on fire”. That mean it’ll break a sneaker down.
December 12th, my ass. This chrome eight releasing now.

Hell Rell in the booth: that Ruga spitting.
Y’all know what that mean? If one fly, son die. His son cry. No euphemisms.
That youth ‘ll miss him.

If dis appear to Day, you gon disappear today.
I’ll turn him to a ghost, and it’s evident, I’m talking clear as Day.

I’ll give him a long sub for trying to be the hero.
Violator one, Spawny boy zero.


Lately they’ve been saying my career on thin ice. I’ma show y’all Gretzky back.
I need y’all to do me one favor. Just one favor. Be completely quiet and let me rap.

This gon be one fine ass slumping. Think wine glass bumping:
let’s suppose I toast men.
Nah, I ghost them; nah, I goes in, the most in.
Shit start to get Bad, Boy,
another King getting boxed off top like they brought Los in.
Posting. I’m too creative; creative postering. I’ll be the host and
I attach to the body for growth; it’s gross but I grows the motion.
Ran, step, we coast through ocean where they host the boats and
you want to bridge, thinking my style just appeared
when I’m crystal clear like they brought Bose in.
Enough of the boasting. You decode it? I’m colder than below ten.
For those who want to B.A. Master, I’m degrees higher.
Sire. Fire as hell if I let the flow sin.
A one hundred percent perfect Day, and in that case, you get no win(d).
Lyt for the pick, see the omen. Oh, men, let’s bring some hope in.
They hoping I’m open to test O pen.
I’m going for the skunk, the monk who became Peter Punker, punk all you Uncs.
I’m where the show been; still I slow end
any career that think I ain’t a real nigga. I’m Quill, nigga. Come and provoke, then.
Think a Chinese going bankrupt: you’ll wake up with a broke Chin.
I told you, I will(wheel) have lines if they spoke pen. I go for the clear body like I won’t cloak skin.
They said, “Day, you should be careful versus the red Street Fighter.”
I reply, “all-you-can(ah-yuken) get flame.” Now let that soak in (so Ken).


Shit like that is why I’m past these peons by eons.
Me, I’m like, wherever O be, we on Trice.

He gon say he..
Peep the line; it’s the sleepy sign. Nigga, I’m beyond(be yawn) crazy;
the best to be is my Destiny, Child. The flow beyond say(Beyonce) he;
‘bout to catch a humongous body. That hoe beyond Gracie’s.

Nigga, what the talk ‘bout in this talk bout? I don’t cop out like the police.
I took money on the house but I don’t show lease.
Look at his body gestures. His cloth probably highly polyester. Yes sir.
But I’m just up here rocking the gold fleece.
Mean guys get clean fried; I use no grease.
Pack the rhymes; never slack with lines, but let the flow crease.
Snacks aside, this cat Devone; to get the mass, never go yeast.
You took this match for a body gain, but wait(weight), you lost.
And they was all telling me O beast(obese).

You got large pounds, nigga? Die it(diet) down.
Think it’s a wedding scene how I’m wetting things.
I’m the best author. One through your chest(Chess), partner; I let it Steam(s).
The last nigga I pulled the nina out on, I told him I bet it sting.
I treat that bitch like getting a call from your side bitch
when you with your main bitch: I silence her, then let it ring.

Let’s lift the quota high for O to get the show to start.
Aw, Homie, son snapping: get a load of Bart.
It could be double the animals in one room, but I still know a(Noa) mark.
A chess pawn. They said I was just drawing; I’m showing art.
You don’t hand over the bread(Bret) brother, bullets ‘ll hit O in(Owen) heart(Hart).

Round one, I’m trying to show y’all how I don’t care.
You knew I would go for the plain(plane) body ‘cause O here(O’Haire).

Round Two


I’m back in Chicago with a .45 for a mirror match.
That’s a double entendre; you caught it, clown?
You vers’ the iron; you from Jordan Downs? Well I’m Jordan down.
Known to burn fat. What that mean? That mean I scorch a pound.
Cannon drumming on them niggas in purple: Morris Brown.

Now he doing all of that fool clown shit but yet and still,
you be talking ‘bout sucking dick when you Twittering.
And misspelling half of your words. Sheer ignorance.
A gay battle rapper who can’t spell? I get the shit.
You a double entendre for Ill-literate. Shit.

I knew you couldn’t be straight. Your tat crooked.
Fuck around and get a hate crime charge for this ass whooping.
Body shot, jab, hook him, he drop, the strap push him.
Leave that extra shit on his lap top: I’ll Macbook him.

Ass whoopings, I Dish On Demand. Signal, and sat a Lyt(satellite).
Savage life. Farooq, Bradshaw, you’re a actor, Lyt(acolyte).

I’m havoc-like. Static, I’ll draw, blood. Flabotomy.
That mag bust, your ass fucked from what’s on the side of me, you copy me?

Shit get Jazzy Pha when the G arrive.
Produce a hit for the Ciara featuring Petey Pab.
Just to feed the squad. Even my Mrs. love it how I turn bodies to mini-pies.
I’m cut-throat: Sweeney Todd. My fleet street; this the demon side.

Now pay attention, folks, ‘cause if he cross that intersection,
in a second his inner section get intercepted.
Then flame his bitch; make his heart burn, no indigestion.
Think him in a year: when I pick the weapon, Smith and Wesson,
face shot ate(eight) Day’s off with the .357.
If you didn’t catch it, don’t even stress it. Here go the quickest lesson.
I said, “think him in a year.” So y’all tell me, how many days in a year?
365, right? So if I pick a weapon, what’s left if I ate days off? Three fifty seven.

Bang. That pipe clap, lay his homie type flat.
Body him, then I’m at Quill next(neck). Nice tat.

Shots pop like a thot giving insight to his chick.
What that mean? That mean that ratchet’ll end Lyt and(enlighten) his bitch.

I’m sick. When I write my three, my bars hits like a shotty banging.
Every word crafted for the kill; I’m speaking body language.

Your three? Two be ehhh, the other you be going dumb.
But that means you only fire one round, like a golden gun.

Y’all want to hear some trill facts? He got advantages this match.
Chiraq want to hear me snap. They’re just hoping that you rap.
You got to put on a mask to spit that crack.
How Suge say it, Surf? I’m a real goon; I wear that ski mask like a hat.


Nah, matter fact, fuck that. I could spit flame without the mask, nigga. I’m Scorpion.
I’ll pistol whip his ass with a ratchet. Swing that forty in.
Right(write) across(a cross) on his forehead, like I’m anointing him.
Reverse Kemp: the forty bang after it point at him.

Want to hear know funny shit?
Before he lost his way in this battle culture, all you Quill fanatics wasn’t on no fan shit.
But now he top five on y’all shit, off straight trolling and Instagram pics.
I just don’t understand it, the irony.
How a nigga with no logical progression progressing off some antics(semantics).

Off that alone, that’s why I got to slump him tonight.
Kannon told me I had him, I was up for a fight.
Turned Gandhi for forty nights: I did nothing but write(right).
Neo when he lost his sight: I see nothing but Lyt(light). And his wife.

She try saving you, the nine get to spitting.
You gon need a miracle for Davone intervention.

I’m Agent Smith. Mr. Anderson gon remember me.
When I murder his father, son, and holy spirit.
He ain’t even catch that, that’s his Trinity.

Third verse, I swear I’m going hard on your chick,
with no remorse. I’ma leave a bullet lodged in her shit.
It’s gon be like both of Trinity’s death scenes. Wanna know why?
He gon have to pull that round out her body; I’ma putting bars through that bitch.

Ya heard me? Jersey.


Soon as they put me on this damn flyer they knew I’d hand fire.
A torch is what I got to show this guy.
O demise. My perception is inception: the dream is something I control.
You’ll see the four, then sky(folding sky). We hold ‘em high, then O, then sigh.
I been chasing O since ’07, now I double O seven times. Do I gotta reload the line?
Chasing O since oh-seven, double oh seven, hold ‘em high,
let ‘em go, then I(GoldenEye)

become flight Lyt, I go for the plain(plane) body, skip the departure signs.
Partner, this part’s surprise; part ya, arrow to get arch torture, we cart your lives;
I black on one in a Million, Man, but I don’t got Marching pride.
I just want confirmation for this type(-)writing.
One day they gon let a author rise(authorize). I never card decline.


I just swag hard on these bad fathers;
only other option is for you to get dead(-)beat.
You still don’t get what my M.O.s is?(Moses)
Well this the part where Red see(Red Sea).

A brother with Flubber kits: I get green out of control.
Don’t stutter shit if a brother slip.
I make B rest, feeding you this formula.
These babies gon realize I’m on some (m)other shit.

I swag flyer; cash higher; just flow, Escrow, the pad buyer.
Your man win; I get a mansion(man chin) bigger than Quagmire’s.

Wait, but let me remind y’all. These slimeballs can’t define god.
They die hard soon as the Tom call their bluff,
but I come tough as McGruff; this shit is a crime, dog.
Whether you get smoked or not, you can’t decline forward.

The blind fall soon as they call shots.
Mutumbo vs Air Bud: finger wave after dog block.
I’m all Watts. Any kid with the can get hard knocked.
All Watts. Every nigga on my team a animal: we Starfox.

But Red, this is why I’m ahead of y’all. I ain’t scared of y’all. I don’t duck. What?
Big Pun, Fat Joe: I’ll tear a squad(Terror Squad) the fuck up.

But this a case where you out(-)classed. Too much time tardy spent.
I got the job done when I have to face the higher(hire).
Soon as the coin toss for shorty, it was Harvey Dent.
They should’ve told you you would have to face the fire.

But if he play buster, we’ll do it the G way. The streets say rush ya.
Make three simple sounds and get beat crazy: DJ Mustard.

Round two, before I got hot as the Devil with this shit,
I tell all you rap niggas, it’s levels to this shit.

Round Three


Let’s clap it up for Davone Campbell,
‘cause this the second time he ain’t bring that bullshit where the Bulls play.
Your round was actually better than the words that I thought you would say.
Wordplay, punches, schemes, you was spitting shit the hood way.
You nice, dude. Ice Cube: today was a good Day.

But at the same time, it’s a sad night. I’m past nice.
This where my bars school Day’s(School Daze), this G on your head, Half-Pint.
You ab, Lyt, when I’m addressing, you lose, wait(weight). This the craft, Lyt.
I’m trying to get you shine. Just a flash, Lyt.
Not the vast light, ‘cause I’ll expose a lot of your messy shit if I black, Lyt.

I watched you take the penmanship, style, angles, antics..
fuck, even the movements of Lux.
Small burger, lettuce, tomatoes: you’re a junior to Lux(Junior Deluxe).

When you rap, I envision Oprah and Danny Glover fucking.
Oh y’all ain’t even catch it, I said that mean when I look at you, I see Beloved.

You dressed up like a slave, my nigga. And lost to a white man on a battle rap offramp.
Then you had a second chance vers’ Iron and got your ass tore. That’s facts.


That was a free head shot though.
How you dressing up like Twelve Years a Slave and couldn’t manage to put Solomon north up?

Chicago, I told Kannon, “Quit with the tough words you fuck nerd, nigga.
You make Chicago look bad: you a Yung Berg nigga.”

But this fag? He hurting all of our swag. He a butt plug nigga.
You make hip hop look bad. You a Young Thug nigga.

Choppa drop him, make him brush that canvas, that’s how I paint the pic.
Hit nothing but Lyt; from this range, I’m all Day with it.
Banana clip break your shit. I’ll lift, get to waving it,
You’ll get stretched next(necks) from the rings when I bring that K in(Kayan), bitch.
Kayan tribe, Google it; that bar was some amazing shit.
Fifty round drum that’ll turn swine to bacon bits.
That Tom knock the air out a pig(’s) skin. That’s a Patriot.

The single barrel shotgun, that shit built like a curtain rod.
Gauge, twenty shells. That mean from that 20-12, his Earth ‘ll die.
This faggot nigga at the wake, shirt and tie, front row, sure to cry.
I’ll leave Lyt’s spirit bodied if I merk her, bye. Merkaba. Google it; that bar’s certified.

That mean I’ll shoot your broad, Daylyt, in broad daylight, blaze her with the gun.
If you Play in Chicago, my shit raising(Raisin) In the Sun.

That just reminded me. You actually said you would fuck Diddy? You a motherfucking lame, mu.
A faggot who 103rd flagging, what’s that? A grape fruit.
Me aim shoot, leave his cage loose, and sent him to Jesus
with a Great Bambi-no, I’ma hit your Babe Ruth.

I’ll push her shit back like Stephen. You know, an A. Smith,
and make you leave without your bitch, you’ll Skip bae-less(Bayless).
I’m great with the glock and the pound; I could Matrix, or late switch.
Nine to five will make a Day shift. Amazing. Give me room. This Day’s end(Inn).
Think he winning? Know what’s amazing?

He came to Chicago, and stole my Big T O-beast bar.
No wonder he think he winning this.
‘Cause the nigga he mimicking, even mimicking Red rhymes.
Vers’ Charlie, Lux did that Ben Stiller shit. You know, the shit he said? Mine.
Pay attention, homo. The proof is in his logo.
But I get it. You can be Beloved Two. Just use a couple of Red lines.

This shit is gon be nasty on the net. I’m talking porn site.
‘Cause most of y’all ain’t get half of this round on-site.
It’s for the people on site.
I did this for the fans on the W.E.B. that’s loving what the boy write.
I’m Floyd-like. He’s just another nigga smoked.
Billy Gruff: it’s always a troll fucking with the goat.

I swear to god on my momma, if it wasn’t for the gwala,
I wouldn’t even bother. But y’all know what they say, right?
Another Day, another dollar.



What I did in my third round versus Ooops, I’d like to call this the sequel.
Fact that I’ma talk about my family, and then I’ma talk to my people.

Look on the news; look what they do to our people as a whole.
I get it. The plot is not as simple, see,
them cops find the right block to plant the right rock
which keep us divided with buying entities.
Divide and conquer. But we built for that street life, riding like it was meant to be,
but I get it. They got us fucked up physically,
and then they got us fucked up mentally,

with something called cerebral fear. Example number one:
it could be six niggas at a dope house, one got a chopper, one got a rocket launcher,
one got a A.R., one got a nina, and one nigga got a tall gun.
Let one police hit the corner with one snub nose .357,
and all six of them niggas all run.


The question is why. But if it was a black nigga, they ready to start the ruckus,
bunch of Uncle Ruckuses.
But they don’t do shit when the cops steady bothering kids.
It’s funny how all these niggas say they got beef baking(bacon),
but none of them willing to slaughter the pigs.

But I get it. You play gangster on the stage. Damn. He style thugging.
His boys with the business, too. His family wild bugging.
Make up your mind. You with the shit, or with your knot. Damn, he wild gunning.
We don’t know if you a man or a bitch: Sammy Wild 100s.

But I get it. Nobody want to do nothing, huh.
The last nigga that played King, they popped his dream.
How we gon ask for justice for Mike Brown? Justice for Trayv-
nigga, we still ain’t got justice for Rodney King.

We can play gangster all we want. But ourself is who we lying to.
We claim to be pit bulls, but to the police, we Family Guys, dog. Brian, dukes.
If any one of y’all niggas ready to go out in the streets
and war it out with the police, then I am too.
You’ll find a battle rapper marching up the street
with the can, sir(cancer). I am Ooops.

But the cops really got us so scared, like, scared than a motherfucker.
Like, every time I cut on the news I’m like, “Damn, look what these guys done done.”
I’m so afraid of the police, I could be in the middle of getting robbed,
and debate if I should call 9-1-1.

I mean, the fact is, if I’m getting robbed, the worst thing that can happen to me
is a nigga take my clothes, I fall to the ground, one of them boot a nigga,
or I could call the police, they show up,
don’t know who robbing who and just start shooting niggas.

But enough with the positive shit.

Shit been looking a little shaky. For this crowd, I came in a rattle.
Last time I was here, I had a crack rock so big, Ill tried to drag it home.
This time, I got a crack rock so big, Yung Ill came to the battle.
Google that. Google if Yung Ill was here.

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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