[Unanymous]
I lost a handful of battles, now I’ve found my rhythm
I’m back on autokill with author’s skill, Bukowski writtens
I mean, this is the third round
And I still ain’t really touched on his albinism
So, let me get it out my system
You need to let this shit marinate
And sink into your pores
You’ve been a caste-away to society since you were born
In later life, you’ll just be a crippled, deformed
Withered and torn, broken old man without a widow to mourn
Look... Byron... if you wanna make this an issue
I’ll take a Ginsu and rip you, you weird-looking motherfucker
Get too hype, I’ll beat the shit out of you
Cause I’m bigger than you, I’ll uppercut you on the weekend
You’re an erotic dancer, like Holly Masters
Juggling your nuts for punters
They make you swallow footlongs and Subways
And strip for change, take off your kit for change
Your stripper name is Honey Mustard
...argh, you fucking... CUNT!
I’m wherever your bitch’s apartment is at
That bitch got armpit fat and army tats
Still I smash until I arch her back
And she got permanent carpet rash
As soon as I’m done, I’m in the lobby
Waiting for you to come barging past
I hear that squeaky voice, get heated
Boy, I’m armed and strapped with that Martian pack
Ready to take out the last Soprano like a heart attack!
Ah, fuck this, time

[Villun]
Yo! How you gonna say my name in a rap
To battle me, then choke?!
Isn’t that the exact same shit that happened
When you were battling Charron?
My pen game’s been on a hype with [?] system
Now I’m walking around with body physics
Right now, you don’t wanna be a target when I’m jotting lyrics
I’m sticking Tommy Villas between some coffin hinges
Once that Glock is ticking, I conjure spirits
Like Goku when a bomb is lifted
At Verdict, you looked in my eyes, boss
You were quite lost, like Locke before
John was given another chance
To hop and pivot, I saw the fear in him!
You came up after, scared shitless
Like, “Yo Villun! We’re still brothers, innit?!”
What a pussy! I’ll leave this square spinning
Like when you cross the finish in a Sonic mission!
I’m putting Tommy Villas in a box
Using TV and a box, since TV in a box is fitting
So, it’s game time, bitch!
You’ve got the kind of name I flip
So today, I think I’m jumping back on my J-9 shit
We’re in Southwest London. This is the place I live
For every facial diss, I got a man in the crowd
Looking to waste this kid
I told him, you can empty five from the gauge on him
What I’m saying is, if TV’s stuck on skins
He can eat four plus one (E4+1) before they change the clip
I don’t even have to box a man out
If things get rocky, V will have Tommy gunned down
No, translate that bit
If things get rocky, five will have Tommy gunned down
All you do is stretch a bunch of nothing
So fuck it, if you’re longing your rounds
They’re fully down to knock your corpse down
If Tommy’s drawing out, they’ll have a Tommy drawn out
You’ll see Tommy’s thoughts found outside
Chalk where Tommy’s drawn out
Fuck your comic talk, you wanna follow Thor’s clout?
Seeing as Tom’s a God of war, now it’s only right
I have a sub-sonic launcher that sends Tomahawk rounds
You’ve got a weak heart, you used your own read bars to beat Ark
This retard’s buzzing, Theo showed you get beef
And that’s when you see sparks coming
See, Tommy operates how screen parts function
It’s common sense, you push his buttons and TV starts running!
See, I’d hate to live a life as pretentious as Villas’
That’s the kinda shit expected of bitches
Plus, TV’s always running, so I can see
Why you’re projecting an image
You said your Mum’s a drug addict
That’s something you’ve confirmed
Bruv, she did lines while she carried you in her stomach
Like she didn’t want you on the Earth
You were just a foetus, bruv, it’s undeserved!
It’s like a Caesarean, your Mum cut before your birth
Fuck fighting fair, I’m throwing punches
We don’t compare, your rounds are barely holding substance
Why the fuck would I spare him when he chucked it?!
I’m giving TV 90’s treatment like an aerial adjustment!
Just ask around, you can lay a hand on him
And he won’t bang you in the face
It’s simple really, you touch Tom, he navigates away
You’re fully down to approach any fan that gives you hate
But won’t approach a rap in the same way
I’m just putting out shit that makes Unanymous fake
Plus, you imitate Diz, but you don’t just rap in his way
You lost to Shotty and DNA!
You’re not into your farm, you’re not a terrorist
You don’t have that terrorist factor
You’re not gonna get respect from Cortez and them rappers
And someone needs to tell him
Getting lines from Frank doesn’t make you an American gangster
Bruv, you hit me up like “Yo, I love Aye Verb, he straight murks!”
You’re a true clown. If you love Aye Verb so much
Change your name from Unan to U-Noun
I mean, Tommy’s on his nuts like no other
And I’m still trying to figure it out
How can you hate High Focus
When you always have Verb’s dick in your mouth?
If I were you, I’d stop fondling his nuts
Cause honestly, it’s dumb
And if you wanna be on Smack that bad
Holler at your Mum
I mean, who knows? She might even have proper licks in Smack
And she’s gone through more Doses than Math Hoffa’s fist
How can I be wrong when family is something this guy speaks on?
I figured I’d cross the line for all the lines he’s crossed
So while you were begging for them to see I v Tom
Your Mum can be getting fed from an I.V, Tom
For ignoring the poison in the eye, V Tom
Villun just fucked blud up, poison ivy, Tom!
THREE NIL!