Cadalack Ron vs. Caustic

Full lyrics to one of Cali's best Grind Time era battles between a then-up-and-coming Caustic and the late, legendary Cadalack Ron.

Watch the battle here.

Round One

Cadalack Ron

There’s nothing wrong with being a felon that’s proud of his skin type.
Ask Miklo. I may be white on the outside, but I’m brown on the inside.

You don’t compare to Ron.
I seem sleazy, but this scene needs me.
Me and G.T. go together like slamming coke and hero-on.
I’m more gangster than a O.G. parolee,
watching a whole season of Gangland marathon.

Well what do you know? It’s that kid from the message boards.
I never noticed, but I know this:
your nose is almost as stretched as most of your metaphors.

You’re an awkward blog nerd, hoping to be the dude that got Ron.
If you got served by Okwerdz, you’d brag about it on Rapmusic dot com.

Lush, you didn’t tell me this was a two-on-one battle; that’s scandalous, bro,
‘cause I can easily dismantle your flows, but I don’t know if I can handle that nose.


Cadalack doesn’t have a lot of black friends,
‘cause usually the first impression is bad.
But it doesn’t help that your car’s registered tags are small Confederate flags,
which is strange, ‘cause your voice sounds like your imitating a Mexican man.
Even your white supremacist dad said that you robbed Rheteric bad.

Which reminds me: Dear Diary,
it’s Ron again. Over the summer I got into extreme dieting.
I find drugs like speed enlightening,
not to mention the fact that it makes me run at the speed of lightning.
When the police chase me now it’s not even frightening,
and when I sleep on the sidewalk I can’t even feel the mosquitos bite me.
It’s been hard to raise money for drugs since my parents cut me off entirely;
I had a job selling used cars for my dad, but he fired me.
Okay, I have to go now; it’s getting hard for me to keep writing these,
‘cause I only get fifteen minutes on the computer in the library.

See that? Homeless people are easy targets. You probably sleep in a park so often,
after this the Bar Exam squadron’s going to have to bury you in a cardboard coffin.

Round Two

Cadalack Ron

Look at this hockey team reject.
I’m the biggest monster you’ve seen yet. You got no offensive reflex.
So when I sock him in the face and the blood gets his beak wet,
don’t sweat. It’s won’t matter; he’s sponsored by Kleenex.

You’re the fake impostor version of Real Deal, with Soul Khan’s nose.
At the last gurp-out, I laid some lines out,
and this motherfucker’s nostrils stole Ron’s blow.

Whoa. How does that shnoz even sit on kid’s face?
How do you keep your head straight, and what’s your strategy
from keeping your center of gravity from having to be displaced?
Everyone knows this bitch is a big fake, you Union City disgrace,
so I guess it’s no mistake you didn’t get any space on the new Fresh Coast mixtape.

Fuck a mixtape, you never made a real CD.
He used to practice his thizz face
just in case he fulfilled his dreams of being on Treal TV.

Everything they say is true. I been making moves and paying dues
ever since you were in skater shoes practicing your Mortal Kombat Raiden moves.


You worship H.T., bitch. After this you’re probably going to buy us some beers.
How you going to diss the Hockey Team?
It looks like you’ve been hitting the fucking ice for years.

Yeah, you got some quotes,
but the fact that you go to Narcotics Anonymous is a joke.
How come when somebody offers you dope,
you can’t control yourself like a responsible adult?

You dropped out of Hollywood High, to walk around Hollywood high.
If any of y’all got a blowjob on Santa Monica Drive, it was probly a guy.

Your parents said your intervention was an embarrassing arrangement,
‘cause halfway through it you fell asleep on the stairs,
naked, with nothing but your hair for a blanket.

When the Jungle starts shooting people up, watch Ron get excited.
You fucking junkie, let’s just hope they amputate the arm that you write with.

Welcome to the league, faggot. You’re now rapping with the finest.
This dumb fuck learned his A-B-C’s from contracting hepatitis.

And when will this mutant realize that it’s the heroine melting down your face?
You’re a grownup now, Ron, it’s time to wear your fucking belt around your waist.

Round Three

Cadalack Ron

Are you fucking kidding me?
How does it feel to know your last battle was one of the worst in Fresh Coast history?
I’m savage. You’re average. Your rapping’s
like trying to get a package on Sunday: you’ve got no delivery.

‘Cause you want to be top tier so bad, dog. You hardly even tough.
I swear, watching you and Mic Phenom battle
was worse than watching retarded people fuck.

You style burglar, I’m a child murderer: I kill wack kids.
How come the best line you had in that battle was a reference to Illmac’s jizz?

No matter how much bitch shit this dickless kid spits,
this linguistic misfit’ll slit his wrists quicker than breakfast grits
missing Bisquick with extra swiftness.
Listen; let’s get specific. His whole existence is fictitious.
A living wish list to be the switch-hit mistress of Kid Twist in his bitch’s lipstick.
Stick to your other interests, like kick-flips, ‘cause on the spit tip,
you’ll get dismissed by this sadistic twisted whiz kid
when I rip this infant wide open like rich kids and gifts on Christmas.


You got the oldest fill-ins. That’s no one’s feeling.
Plus, you look like Owen Wilson if a cobra bit him in the throat and killed him.

This the only Cadalack that takes keys in his ass.
The reason is that, I don’t mean speakers and amps
when I say he puts twelves in his trunk and gets beat from the back.
You look like Stevie Nicks ‘cause in the Year of the Rat
your dad bought a 1973 Grand Marquis in green and black
and you were conceived in the back.. to Fleetwood Mac.

You ain’t hard at all, sipping up forties of Armor-All with your homies from art class.
Y’all think this phony’s a hard match? Bitch, show me the Carfax.

Okay, I get it, you’re a talking car. But KITT from Night Rider rhymes tighter,
and anybody who’s ever recognized you thinks you’re Existereo’s driver.

You just can’t stop me, Ronny. There’s no way I’m getting fucked over,
not until I prove this jalopy’s just an overrated cupholder.

You had it good in L.A., Ron,
but the drugs they’ve been feeding you made you fucking inferior.
So what’s the good of owning a Cadillac if you fucked up the interior?

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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