battle
Let the helmet-bumping commence (ayo!)...

There's still four days left until the Super Bowl, but Colts' QB Peyton Manning and the Saints' Drew Brees couldn't wait to start throwing delta darts at each other. One's a Nawlins native, the other the city's adopted son, but there's no love lost between the AFC and NFC rivals. In between practicing their aggrieved white-guy faces, the two decided (with our help) to settle this blood feud on the real gridiron—the MICROPHONE. Who spit that real Louisiana hot sauce (no Romo!)? Peep the verses below and cast your vote...

DREW BREES: VERSE 1
Don't confuse these Saints with the lames of Latter Day
Just because there's mad Ben-Gay cream in your dad's beignet
That sellout had his day, the new black and gold staff
Brings you the French Quarter, but you can get the whole shaft
Nawlins blow all over y'all like Satch did
You're but a bitch pitchman who'd prefer to catch it
You and Timberlake should advertise more for Sony
Cause your Colts squad's looking more like My Little Pony
Nothing but blanks in that Colt that you carry, son
How you gonna shoot it out without Marvin Harrison?
Ath-a-lete? You're a math club geek with happy feet,
Hardly poised, the Mannings look like retarded Hardy Boys
Trying to be the champs of licking fuck outta Oreos
What's your training camp, getting bust on at gloryholes?
Good ole boy Arch must' had a heart attack, Jesus!
His boys on TV cleaning cream off hard black sweetness

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PEYTON MANNING: VERSE 1
Naptown, stand up! You are now speaking with the horseman
Of apocalyptic gifts and unlimited endorsements
Which means I'm already so caked up I don't need these accolades
Except makin' you say "Who dat?" when your back gets sprayed
Once that bell goes off, it's the sound of your silence ending
I got four MVPs, but now there's more violence pending
With all that Cajun talk you rock, you ain't no fuckin' Jacques Chirac
So I'll just let my man Garçon serve you up a platter of coq
The Post-Katrina saviors, 'bout as useful as a FEMA trailer,
I could sit out three quarters, and just let my D impale ya
I mean, Harrison might be gone, but we still packin' lethal weapons—
Like when Freeney and Mathis introduce themselves to your midsection
And don't say you'll plug the holes, son, we know what you do with those, dunn:
First you get the Shockey Shocker then get taken deep by Colston,
Then there's Bush and Gay—nah, forget it, I'm just talkin' reckless,
So forget the Super Bowl ring, just put on this pearl necklace...

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DREW BREES: VERSE 2
You think you'll carve us up, but no, Darren's Sharper
Your chances are slimmer than the corpse of Karen Carpenter
Saints sticking a fork in you, and I'll get Garçon
To bring me the utensil to put my private parts on
Going against the Saints—blasphemy
We're gonna ho you out like Baby does at Cash Money
And as for me, son, I'm the tightest
But your corny white ass thinks you're Johnny Unitas
Nah, see, in your future, there ain't no partying
Only rectal sutures when the Saints go marching in
Spanks at Archie's hand never left you this welted
'Cause the whole Colts team is about get gelded
And since wifey needs a stallion, she oughtta divorce you
Take this rod fit for Horseshoes and quarts of my horse goo
Yeah, she'll feel the Brees when I'm put out to stud
How could she not when I pull a foot out that slut?

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PEYTON MANNING: VERSE 2
C'mon B, I'll just slip you some E and make you my Breezy
Come to the Yayo and we'll hang an O on you like Young Jeezy
My squad's as thick as my playbook, you can't peep the way we do it—
I'd tell you to save face, but that birthmark beat me to it!
So forget the game tape, just to stand a chance with me
You need to let Young Pey-Pey help you with your only strategy:
First off, y'all CBs slower than Portishead deep cuts,
So I suggest y'all cover-2 and slob on both deez nuts;
Might as well create some holes for Bush to run through, k?
'Cause we all know what you mean when you call out "Ray-J!"
How you gonna take the weight? You allergic to wheat and gluten!
Soon as we take the field, you runnin' 'round like "oooooh, they shootin'!"
Man, this ain't even a contest, it's not worth a stupid poem,
We'll settle this on neutral ground, but you'll still give us Superdome
You shittin' me? This ain't hard work, I'm just two-minute drillin', B,
I could use another ring, I left the last one up in Brittany...

[poll id="474"]

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