Hold on to your underwear

So a few months ago when I posted some old battles
Bruce slaughtered my repeats like they were old cattle
Apparently he has BEEF with reusing cold prattle
Hence the reason he dumped me in shit creek with no paddles
So if I may respond to (and I use the term loosely)
This "gentleman" who slammed me in verse so profusely
I'll counter these charges of lame repetition
And leave y'all with the comeback for which you've been wishin'

So yo, here we go. Hold your breath while I flow
Oh so slowly at first, then lookout below as I blow
Just like ol' Smithy at the knob slob convention
Who says taking homo—I mean, home—the gold is his only intention
But that's beside the point. We're not here for Fat Mike
We're here to jeer at the queer with a major in Psych
So Bruce, here's a question: Is it difficult to type
While giving hand jobs for brand jobs? Because I've got a gripe
With that crock of poo stew you guys use to make "hype"
It's time somebody taught you to bend over and wipe
And speaking of brands, I think if Bruce had his own
It would either be "Bland" or "Lonely Hand on a Bone"
Or perhaps simply "Flav" because B's clearly got no Flavor
People skip past his quips so they can hurry up and savor
Every bite that I spice like I’m Emeril, Lord and Savior
Of the Week. And your weak, sickly rhymes have to quaver
And waver when confronted with mine
Hell, yours should have to sign a waiver to share space with mine!

Yeah your cocky pop is straight poppy cock
So I hope you're sweatin' balls like a sloppy jock
For being so full of crap. And it seems like this rap--
Well, it's turning into a rout
And thanks to Huckins, Bruce's caboose is so loose that the poop just falls out
Which leaves him so pooped he just sits there and pouts
And that's my third reference to feces, so peace G's. T-Mac out!
(Like Bruce in 2008 when the Dem's regain power
And he's no longer afraid to admit that he showers
With men at the gym, where he hangs out for hours
Dropping the soap and then hoping for flowers.)
But enough with the gay jokes; they're no longer original
Unlike the story about Mike and the pigeonhole
Which I used to think was just a figure of speech
Until I saw a tape of him doing a bird breach
And then spinnin' those tail feathers and doing a bird reach
Around. Guess Smithy loves the feathery peach
I bet the sex tape's even hotter than the one made by Screech!

But enough, I digress. Bow your head to the best
Then stand up and man up and admit that this test
Of wits between twits should be laid right to rest
Because there's clearly no match for my rapier jests
Respond if you must, but I'll still be the victor
Because my skills can only be measured by Richter
Though on a scale of 1 to 10, I give you a 4 Bruce
Because you were right about how my dink's infected with whore juice
You just picked the wrong whore, so here's my last bomb
My case of VD? Yeah, it came from YOUR MOM!

Boomshackalacka Mothafacka