 annual birthday event, it's been fucking crazy. This is the second battle of the day. Massive Shouts of Peace Soldiers on Petrope's start-up day in absolutely great style. This is battle number two of his day, number one, and I'm gonna get straight into the battle, straight away, really. I cannot wait to introduce MC on my right-hand side. He last battled over two years ago on the fourth birthday, RIP cable match, Shouts to them. But, making his return here in silence, please make him feel welcome. The calcium kid has won. I need to shout them out, and I forgot about it. Shout out to the calcium, who last said it was fourth birthday, and he's last battled, and now come back. This is gonna be an amazing UK battle. And the UKMC on my left-hand side, absolutely smashed the in-knots on four days' prep. Shout out to them for that. But now, here on his sixth birthday, please make some fucking noise for Pamphlet. Put cast on SoundCloud, and I will stop a little review on YouTube, check them out, say. All right, I forgot I gave you this first. Me. All right, cool. All right, here's a non-judge thing. So, as usual, in the endboard of the screen, when it says, please vote through the vote, please take five seconds to vote on our official website. All right, it's on Pamphlet, round of the one that's going on. I'm coming hot. Puddle is not his puppy cock. You shut your eyes and suck on your lollipop, and imagine it's your buddy's cock. So, it's Taylor Adams versus Jason Lifehands. It's Tony D's favourite white man versus a baby spice fan. You need to take your life back, because blazing pipes made from sprite cans got your crazy mind jacked like David Icaz. I'm gonna make this guy sad, because I spit it darker than a Katie Price tag. I move gas. I'm afraid I'm a fodder. I move gas with your mate in a garden, hiding, whistling, filming for Facebook and laughing while you're saying, where are you? I spit it greater and bring the flavour. Paper elevating on a bed of nails whilst penetrating Cheryl Baker on rep or breakers. Your mother's nick of vapours is a chicken flavoured. Your bitch was listed in a business bid. The yellow pages as a fetish slave who literally licked a shit from a dripping anus for a cigarette and a bit of paper. She once did Blizzard a little favour and gave him anal in exchange for a spliff and a sipper-yager. How come you're Joanna Lumley-sized but you have a mum that's white? She's so fat and dumb that I call her Apple Crumble Fights. Hear me right, I'm good and she's a really nice woman but she's so weirdly white, her skin's clearly quite looking like a creamy rice pudding. Your mum, I give you, I made your mum sick when she licked my medicine balls. You can't blame me, definitely, though, because she once did every member of your secondary school in the assembly hall. You get a hard on fast whenever dance mum starts. Believe that shit, this geese is sick, he's a prick. I don't know if you've seen a story but it's recent and it seems legit. People's kids have been playing with this thing called the evil stick and it's his penis tip. Food to pamphlet's inability of imagery. You look like a snowman that's been socked in the eye with a lack of creativity. I refute chasing the word respect around a circus tent, I circumvent, I'm only this skinny because I spend my time kicking the fucking air to death. Yo, cry me a motherfucking bucket of tears about how you struggle to get love from your peers. I'm only here because I haven't killed a hooker in years. Why did you start? Pretty please lie me a farce. You hit a mile and a half shy of the mark. This battle is watching beige paint dry in the dark. I'm only here because I'm only here because dog walkers make it exceedingly difficult to cry in the park. Yo, seeds, rubber legs quicker than a bookies pen. Oh, don't you love it when your style is a dozen eggs smothered from a mother hen? I stay poignant as something Danny Glover said. I'll smother this hooker dead with a slice of buttered bread. Yo, stick to framing stamps and email and Bret Hart your favourite chance. I will show up at your door with 10,000 trailing ants, waving shanks, threatening your neighbour's plants, demanding to be paid advance. Bitch, I fight like a 1984 Kevin Bacon dance. Yo, I will fucking... I will kung fu your front two for footloose. Like, fuck you, Kevin Bacon bars. Yo, dare me to snap. I will bitch slap you in front of a glare and a cat as they glare at your back with 11 magpies on a line, paged to attack. Yo, your style is cold porridge for the mother bear. Remember when you left and nobody fucking cares. Me is, different between me and you is, you use barbie scissors to cut your hair. I turn the gas on and struck a flare. Everything I buy from IKEA, I turn into a wooden chair. Fuck this dirty skit, my words are best. Referencing something in that verse you said you were going to kick the earth to death but you can't because I got there first and now no turf is left. What are you eating? He's bisonatual because he had gammon this evening and he's a vegan. You won't go ham or the sandwich of beef in J Cubs crackers and I actually believe him because you look like Tam's in that actress from Green Wing got packed with a snatch for the seamen after shagging a cheese strip. I spit great puns. You're a thin lame cunt. You ain't Big J's son, you look like Big J's son. The other day I saw Posh and Bex having sex within the Luz. I say Luz because I saw Rebecca with them too. Now I know you need to go and eat a belly full of food because I've seen Victoria Beckham in the Luz and even the silicone that she went to get removed from her little set of boobs is heavier than you. I feel I need to carve you a steak that's like half of your weight and even still it wouldn't fill the middle part of my plate. I should fart in your face but I can't because my target's off. Your barbeque's off. Your barbeque's off. There's no way that you'll par me off because you look like you went to the barbershop and asked for the Charlie Sloth. His past is like a gnarly rocker who became old. This party pop is just a lame joke. You look like Jarvis Cocker in your brain's pulp. And I need to bring a gun in his son. I let the words kill him, yo. I leave Kelsey missing, which is ironic if the nerds didn't know because you look like the milk carton from that blur video. And I'm coming in hot. His mum is a dog. He's from the same place as The Beatles but not the one discovering part actual Beatles because he lives under a lock. Tired. Yo. Oh, wouldn't it be dope if I were so contrived hoped you'd died. So do let's. Your style is yesterday's fish stock pre-packaged and shipped off and pre-heated in your local chip shops on Prince Pot. And what Hitchcock would think of if he sniffed rock the size of a quick drop from the brink of a cliff top. But you think Brick Top gets his fucking pigs off? Nan-knitted mitten box. Bits get to kicking rocks. You smoke weed, bro. I smoke sniffer dogs. Here I could be in the tree lying licking frogs trying to raise 1.21 gigawatts. Yo, I like to ride my bicycle a lot sipping licorice schnopps trying to nickel your pogs with my motherfucking dick in a box. So I'm on that fucking white rabbit hot water combo bowtie-quando. Balloon animal jiu-jitsu face-down on my third can. I'll eat you with four dab hands in a wake van. Man, I'm blessed my cotton socks. I'm not scared fam. You look like you listen to bed, man. You have far too much of a vagina to stop me. I will run you over while drunk driving the designated drive of the offy. Yo. Yo, with no feet, I'll fucking smother this coast guard with a postcard of his own beach. Yo, remember when you said you didn't care if you made stacks as long as they clapped? That's a gay fact. You rhymed poo and loo. Suffice it to say, some things you just can't take back. Yo. Yo. Yeah, you're dick in a box. You wanted to battle daylight. You wanted to battle daylight on some tight pant tip cos you're gay but you're straight sick of white man's dick. So you asked if they could make him come and you lied back quick cos you knew that he'd get naked and you like that shit. The first rapper on Dope Flops is most propped to go down on one knee on the stage but he won't cause he didn't want a proposed dog. He wanted to give him a blow job. You wanted to come in mid-day like a sofa from DFS. Went to the dealer with Yo Dope for a piece of meth and tried to buy Coke with a VHS, he just stole him from VHS. Stop lying about the girl she've had sex with. He reckons he's had so many babes... He reckons he's had so many babes off of Baywatch he's basically Dave Hoff. Your rate of the weight loss is greater than Kate Master as I keep getting bigger every day and my weight cause I see that bread like the Great British Bake-Off or Tony Gray in a cake shop. It's like when you was born, God mixed up your arse and head. This Scouts has passed his best. He's like Dougal from Father Ted if he starred instead in The Cast of Bread. I was originally supposed to be battling soul at this mad event but you stole his role and his bread like you was jacking dead at a Gregg's. I didn't think that would have effect I just wanted to star in Bad Bars with Buddy Bagnell next. His cameras are better. They'll focus the fuck at Cha Cha better be packing the cheddar pamphlet is clever cause I just wrote a load of dough jokes and told them sandwich together. I promise myself if you use the term wrapping a grate in this battle today I would throw you at a grenade. Matchup is a motherfucking slap in the face we can fight cause to me hospitals are free sandwich and a packet of grapes. I mug you for an apple a day. Yo who's back to his best? Who's phoning up the NHS and asking for sex? Who's cashing in checks to take whose ex-girlfriend's cast to the vets? Me? Yo. Yo. Yo. I'm sick of these motherfuckers that try to act crazy I am crazy as cat ladies trying to contract rabies you look like Pat Swayze's a legitimate crack baby. I stay slick as my nan's gravy Pam say me you'll say me as ever you look like Wham had a motherfucking baby together. Yo. I'll force his lady a leisure to make me a sweater I'll visit your local golf course and hassle staff till they make me a member steal the eight-call and make my nan's gardener far faker the better kill yourself and save me the pleasure of grating pepper in your open wounds I'll make it in your local news for stealing soup with a loaded spoon Yo. Yo. I'll stop you during a game of snooker and claim I didn't know the rules I'll have an S for a motherfucking chauffeur's shoes Yo. Yo. Who delivers the Henry Tynaski and who looks like motherfucking Kelly Kopowski? You do. You do. Die in a fire. Die in a fire. I've missed out on it for the last like three years really big venues like this and feeling confident in my lyrics so big seeing the progress of Slate makes me a long mate