Rap Battle, Pt. 3 Lyrics

Taylor: Bro like on a real note, like, I don't think you're feeling your own album anymore like it's more about like... Madonna

Dillon: What the fuck you say? I do love my album! I can prove it to you.

Taylor/Dillon: RAP BATTLE!

Taylor: Yeah, 2Virgins.

Dillon: And T-Niffer! Yayeah!

Taylor: 100% serious, Paul Walker beats, Fast & Furious I'm curious but not bi, you kissed six guys? So do I, airplane fly. Push drive Abe Lincoln never lie. Racist they hate guys Uncle Si, do me a favor: Go die. You don't want to hear the rest of my album? Why?

Dillon: Yo, catch me ballin' in the beaver with the top off, bring your girl to my crib I'll take her top off. Got some hair from a black girl, I call that black off, they say I'm crispy when I'm on this beat, yeah you dare me? Dairy meats, uh, yo bitch calls me the mister. I take all yo girls, call me Adolf Hitler. You throw me to the side, smellin' like apple pie.

Taylor: Thomas Jefferson a hypocrite, sign me up for every event cause I'm olypmic. Buy my album? I don't give a shit. Long as I make at least a hit! How many licks does is take for the center of my lolli-cock? Rap battle me, I need to stop. Sandusky jams to Kidz Bop, Casey Anthony throws a baby when she sees the cops, pullin' blonde hair like Goldie Locks.

Dillon: Make your girl wet like Michael Ander-falls. Can't fit my dick in a straw. Louis Vuitton belt buckles, red girls with freckles, yeah, fuck me with your meanest red-chopped Adidas. Black and white, camo pants. Aeropostale frag-er-ance. Yeah, call me Bill Nye. White girl, no thighs. Yeah, I'm fruitier than a box of Fruit Loops, like a buck-tooth Sabertooth, killed the beat; vitality. Fucked my dog; call that beastiality. Versace A's, Afrcia without aids.

Taylor: Yeah one more time I'm going in.

Taylor: Line after line like a fucking book, Chef Boiarde cook. Wanna see my dick? Take a look. Grab the microscope, open up to my parents like an envelope. My shit dope. Holy shit, Pope! See my bros and we interlope, quick dead like a quick scope. Spit raw? Say no. Butthole loose cause I dropped a soul, on purpose. My ryhmes are worthless. (I hope evey fangirl heard this.)

Dillon: Yo, my daughter's a failure, and my grandpa's a sexual predator, and my son's a drug dealer. Well, uh, what's the Illuminati? Precious with a skinny body? America without weed? Ha, that's like me without herpes! Or "Kim Kerdarsheeun" without flirting! Yeah, dollar bills. Snapbacks and flat bills. Signed a 20K deal.

Dillon: You did pretty good.

Taylor: Yeah man I, I, it's like a draw, like, like how I draw na-, naked men and stuff like that.

Dillon: Yeah cause life, it's kinda like a mic stand. Cause it can sometimes fall down, but when it fall down, someone's gotta pick it up, and someone's gotta sing those vocals. And that's what life is without, uh, cereal boxes and catalogs.

Taylor: Man, like, I for real felt that, like, like seriously I felt that like sometimes it's like an internet router. Like, it's sometimes there for you, but sometimes it get blown away by like a tornado and like you're looking for like a cereal box but then there's no Fruit Loops in it. Like, you feel that?

Dillon: Yeah... You guys make sure to listen to the rest of the album like this kid's tryna use this money to get laid like he's been having a rough time getting a girlfriend, like, we really need your guy's support on this one.

(Thanks to Katelynn Springer for these lyrics)