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UKFF Rap Battle - Group B Semi Final

John Matrix

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You have until 09:00 on Friday 19th of July to vote for your favourite rapper.


Each has until that time to submit one 16 line response so you choose to vote blindly, based on the first effort, or you can wait until you've heard both raps.


Slick Dick Nick


Your cock's a BTEC diploma, but you're not getting a PHD son,

Time you just make like Mark Speight in Paddington.


You're the King? Nay! I'm higher and mightier,

You're getting burnt like an Arizona firefighter.


I'm like Clubber Lang with the DaggaDaDaggaDaDang

Like those marathon runners you're gunna feel the bang.


Like the president in Egypt, I'll overthrow ya,

I'm thumping you like I'm Saatchi and you're Nigella,


Tough luck Coco, you'll understand you can't win 'em all,

Time for you to move to Zimbabwe, black up and go call Stuart Hall.


I beat the champ, the little scamp, and I'm in such Rude form,

My rhymes are tighter than a Camel's backside in a sandstorm.


You didn't cut the mustard, so fuck off and accept the loss,

You were the back of a German net. I was Jeremy Goss.


Harmy quoted Disney, so with that in mind here's one last thing:

"Scar! Brother! Help me!" ".........Long live THE KING."


King Coconut


Never was a name put to so much shame,

As when the prick, Dick Nick, brought Slick to the game.

I see it as my duty to let everyone know,

That there

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Crap rap. When did you become such a dullard?

Worst shit I've read since The Beach Diaries by Stuart Millard.


Should've plagiarised ala Chilli, as your own material is feeble,

It's as boring as when Frankie ejaculates over the Beatles.


I've the voice of a ButchReedMark and the knowledge of an IanHitmanHart,

You're a Mikey or a PatDFB: Just a Charisma-less wet fart.


UKFF, I'm away and I've STILL time to actually SEND rhymes,

What you say, Booker Comp quitters, who've wasted my fucking time?


Bitch, I've just LETTERBOXD you like I'm Gladstone Small,

Like those Italians at Heysel, you're off the wall.


Round one you smashed it, but I should win this meeting,

You're Marc Vivien Foe, I can't hear your heart beating.


I'm leading this dance, but I'm no longer taking you by the hand,

I'm now Roy Keane, and you're Alfe Inge Haaland.


Tanning on my Corfu Sunbed reading tabloid editiorials,

You were a girl in a club, I was Titus Bramble. I was Predatorial.

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