BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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Lyrical Analysis of...
Fingerless Hand
- Yo, being the best ain't 'bout pomp, ain't 'bout posture—
- it’s the impact, the aftershock, adversaries lost in the roster.
- You up next? Grab the pen, cock it proper,
- spit forty five in five like Doc’s clockwork chopper.
- My coupe’s got curves, my verbs crack ciphers—
- prophetic scriptures, Granddaddy's compass fractured in five wars.
- Directionless since my ascension, blood on the ledger,
- nosebleed chess moves, one kill—no sweat, I'm death’s executor.
- Came off like Da Vinci with a vendetta,
- 7 Eleven was Eden till the pressure severed my tether.
- Sip the nectar, make a wish—angel dust on your lips,
- lamp glow, lead pipe tucked where the basement bricks sit.
- Twin Glocks whisper psalms through the drywall,
- every rhyme’s a landmine wrapped in holy verse protocol.
- Yo, I'm cerebral venom, lethal in seconds—twelve to ten systems,
- A crownless kingpin, squeezing lead on presidents' inscriptions,
- Patriot? Liar. Uncle Sam's debts got me flexing scriptures,
- Bloodlines severed clean—cold steel where kinship glistens.
- Underbelly oligarch, Holocaust flows with civility disguises,
- My fraudulence perfumed in gunpowder—silence the riotous,
- No project baby, just eggshell hallways peeling like paranoia,
- "Blessed"? My psyche autopsied that word mid sermon—
- Nausea’s my compass, the office splintered by juvenile fists,
- Kids catch haymakers, ribcages crack like pistachio gifts,
- The gin’s a thin veil—watch the monster sip through the abyss.
- Yeah, they dub me Shogun—silver tongues turn to chrome,
- Money moves serpentine, stackin’ sins where the sirens roam.
- Fingerless grips clutch steel like Edo thieves in the mist,
- Kickin’ vans into cliffs, cash avalanches get split.
- Dam breach rhetoric, sandman logic with narcotic ticks,
- Van Damme high kick ya franchise into crooked bricks.
- Clash with brass knuckles, fan of the flask—Samurai drunkard,
- This land’s a coliseum, grandstand built from blood and bunker.
- Who knew the ciphers kill? Full clips but the meters chill,
- Loose lips sink ships—Lu Bu with a sniper’s skill.
- New moon’s a pupil dilated, shrooms dilate the hatred,
- Too true with the scalpel—crews get autopsied, sedated.
- Cool as Arctic warfare, tune sharp as a kris dagger,
- Still, the fools lose layers—peeled like lacquer for the swagger.
- I’m the ghost in the shell game, both shell and the clam,
- Yakuza palms under Noh masks—still, the cash grand slam.
- Built like Pagoda tiers—bills disappear in the fog,
- Full clips, loose screws—still thread the needle like a cog.
- Real recognize real when the moon’s a neon sign,
- And every syllable’s a bullet casing—designed to shine.
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