BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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Lyrical Analysis of...
Finales (ft. joey-)
- ///verse (me) \\\
- splatter a verse, leave brains on the track like roadkill
- studio thugs got fake bodies, they need band aids, still
- clip empty? my pens a semi, reload syllables
- dump rounds where the sounds so loud its killin' civilians
- shark teeth in the ink, bite tracks, leave em hemorrhagin'
- your flows a flatline, I defibrillate, still aint medicatin'
- pistol whip a metaphor 'til the syntax start seizin'
- step in my range? catch a hollow tip through your back meaning
- talk slick? I split wigs, leave scalps hangin' from rafters
- bloodsport lyrics, every syllables a bone fracture
- grind on tracks, leave treadmarks where the beats pavement
- your rhymes outdated, flip scripts like Iim sellin' bootleg vapes, kid
- graffiti the game with tags so sharp they slash arteries
- your crews a sinking ship, im the anchor they cant carry
- spit venom where the pens fangs puncture through the page
- leave critics in stitches, disstracks got em needin stitches
- bar for bar, your starvin', im a course in carnage
- chew through weak lines, leave jaws broken in the morgue
- run up, get done up, funeral hymns in the rhythm
- cremate flows, scatter ashes where the competition is
- ///verse (joey )\\\
- blades in the verses, split wigs with the cursive
- fuck a crown, im takin scalps with the service
- talk slick, get your jaw clipped like a coupon
- leave your block lookin like a sharks smile all troops in
- spit flames, but im colder than a penguins tuxedo
- turn your clique to loose leaf, shredded in the studio
- your bars? Dog food bowl lickin pups chewin
- am the stray that drags carcasses to dumpsters, no movin
- yea wasp graffiti the game with blood splatter, abstract art,
- they not lyrical, syllable cpr, flatline charts
- step close, catch a toe tag mid diss track
- your cliche a flat tire, im the jack lift cracks
- choke on the alphabet, Z to A like reverse taxes
- your punchlines slap softer than a nuns backhanded axes
- im the ghost in the shell, no anime pure soul vacs
- bury crews in verb coffins, six feet under metaphor tracks
- you peasants kneel, kings crowns rustin in pawnshop glass
- am the brick through the window, cash grab turned gas
- call this verbal arsenic, one verse and the fuckin colon collapse
- finales nigga this the prologue to your last chapters lapse
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