I’m here to knock this smug bastard off your ARIA chart
He’s a sorry old fart to my impresario art
I’m 360’s Red Ring of Death… sorry, forgot
You play 64 and fucking crashed your Mario Kart
Yeah, I’ll drop a cunt just like your award stunt, less the censor
And snap the neck of your bestie friend… Pez dispenser
Leave Josh Pyke spiked up on a sharp pike
Oh, wait, that pole is you? You’re more skinny than Posh Spice!
That crushed ice Slushee diet you should stop quick
Did a mop stick fuck a chopstick and birth this dropkick?
I hear he’s myopic in his eye optic
Typhlotic, blind, quite ophthalmoscopically cycloptic!
Got a transplant ‘cause your cornea stuck?
That sucks. And just your luck, you’re still corny as fuck
A wet towel, your life vision must be one big let down
If “What You See Is What You Get Nowww”
I ‘see’ nothing ‘left’ for you, ‘right’? He storms out
Gee, calm down. Wouldn’t think you’d flip out hearing the see-bomb, pal
Any alley, any house party, any show
I’ll take your rap cred and wrap your ass in the ransom note
I’m an Atlantic iceberg, you’re the Titanic boat
‘A door’ me? You ‘Jack off’, I ‘Rose’ above ya, you’ll never float
Panties twist frantically into panic mode
How you gonna battle back without your nanny Anecdote?
How many quotes has that tranny wrote for ya
Filling your fanny, nose and throat spilling his gigantic load?
Battling with Anecdote in ventures of hip hop
Was like watching the Toxic Avenger carry his mop
Your battlerap career may have proved to be mission fail
But what’s this I hear about you marrying Christian Bale?
Who? Crystal Bale? Pardon my next whispered breath…
(This’ll be awkward, I thought you said he loves Crystal Meth!)
You getting hitched? This chick is the fricking bitch you’ll marry?
I’ll read about it in the paper… obituary
You want ‘commitment’ from this pure bride you espied?
Hurry, or she’ll soon decide she’s ‘committing’…
That’s right, I Do-or-die. Christ, that YouTube vid was endless
Her MySpace Top 8 all offing themselves, leaving her friendless
I’d have those thoughts too, coping half-blind
As some dope who got signed to sell out… “I Hope You Don’t Mind”
Shit, gotta tear up my page of jokes in a rage, man
In the time it took to write this, she broke off the engagement?!
… about time you released a single I could enjoy for once.
I can’t draw ink on my skin and leave this cunt floored
Already spoofed that scrawny white dude from Die Antwoord
Slap a fag in this rapper tag, I’m ocker hustling
Duck Duck Goose rhymes? Nahhh, fuck a Gossling
Going down like pillow insulation, you’re a featherweight
Get a plate, I’m serving you to demonstrate you never ate
Emaciated as the shadow of a zephyr, mate
Your last CD was gay as fuck, I’m here to set the record straight
I’m no hater, congratulate ya for your recent win
But skaters know 360’s one-third of a decent spin
I score gold, silver and bronze… you are “Forthright”
Who brought Ness to a fucking Ganondorf fight?
And Bec Cartwright called on behalf of Lleyton Hewitt
Sing chorus on your latest duet? He’d hate to do it
Man, I can’t tell what’s worse, a tennis star to verse ya
Or serving your balls to his instructor, Kerser
Nib’ll rap spittin’ cryptic word play
This dipstick will scribble shit on his skin like a kid in third grade
I’ll fill an urn the way I fucking grill and burn ya
3ree 6ixty? I kill Letters & Numbers, just ask Lily Serna
Get a calendar as one of your tattoos, mate
You say to everybody ‘C U Next Tuesday’
Come at me bro, don’t chicken out. Is Mickey Mouse
Tattooed on your neck meant to cover your grandad’s hickey out?
You lack shine… MATTE. Back in your place-MAT.
I wipe the shit from my shoe all over your face… MAT.
You bring the lip gloss, Styalz Fuego will bring the whips
And you can make more faggy sparkles with your fingertips
Who’d go see shitty promo shows in your purple shirt?
360’s homo-code for a giant circle, jerk!
That quirky smirk only works for a dull bogan
Who talks like Paul Hogan and looks like a tall blowgun
Chalking a wall slogan, Nib sits back and enjoys the view
My rap destroys your crew in a way you’re employed to do
You need your voice reviewed, those vocals are all noise, it’s true
You always rap cocky because only “Boys Like You”
Wearing a bowtie and a charcoal suit? Clown,
You make me want to shoot rounds into Newtown
Aviators, tipped cap and Sunday slippers?
Stole your zipped shirt and ripped shorts from Bondi Hipsters
Looking like a heroin addict who slipped up
On his flip flops, fell in a gluepot, managed to lift up
Then tripped again past every mannequin in the thrift shop
And tried to pass the look off as some larrikin hip hop
Quit fashion crimes, tackle raw rhyme production
Blimey, did someone give Macklemore liposuction?
Try a small snack, Matt, maybe a Short Stack?
He’d rather snort crack and record tracks begging for his whore back
Low blow, we both know your ex-wife will die
Guess that’s the circle of life, 360… Life of Pi?
Now which knife should I, use to cut a filling slice
I’ll swill it down with a chaser of diet Vanilla Ice
of , which is