BUILDING BLUEPRINT
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Lyrical Analysis of...
1 train collab
- let the syllable kid from singapore spit in a cynical fit
- till your ligaments' stiff when rigarmortis get you little men sittin'
- pants shitting, scared, barely even shifting, I'm as sick as fourty children
- after a night of barcadi, booze, a party ruse with gentlemen pretends
- We a hearty group of demanding demented pedantic dim manics
- with a stifling penchant for rapper ravaging, you're gaffling this game in vain
- and getting your pad invaded, bout to be levitated off the scaffolding placement
- Got you heaven embracin' after your neck vein's lacerated, got you plankin' above before, you even understand it
- this is my, best in ages, masquerading as, ganondorf's manifest
- with a pentaforce in hand, in fact my damn index possessed the damage
- of a penance stare to a decadent to grant him death by recompense
- when I'm penning raps, now repent your arrogance, or I'll, bloodier your barrier
- bury ya, render you nary a living thing when I'm bending ya to gats
- Cause I'm back again, rappad's freddy Kruger, begetting lasting death to users
- Your vest is useless, so face up cause you're up, against my ruthless bevy of rugers
- I'm coming back to shock and awe, keep running, squawkin' with your clotted scars,
- my gats are cocked for more, lock the door and I'll just knock it off
- Fuck knocking it off I'll mop the floor, with you till you drop your jaws and hit the pantry too, I scoff at ya'll, roflol, spit's so plentiful
- render you washed ashore target tuned, in, red dotted point of view Ending you,
- cause the singapore kid is gonna rend a few sllyable spits
- in a cynical fit till you little men sit, don't fidget, just shit I'm a visceral heathen as sick, as the common flu
- spitting' missiles, even rocket fuel, so when I cough, achoo I'm dislodging you from the air, put you in the coffin too
- last nail, robbing you of your cuticles, and your music flow
- Your fuse has blown, short circuit, temper got you using poles to abuse your hoes, try to reach the podium,
- but a pole position you couldn't hold, not even your own wooden bone
- be it spoken sugarcoated or zero coca coke, you're still just livin', dreaded fodder
- I'm giving you dead daughters when I split your groin in two It's a late harvest I'm the reaper's picture joined and fused
- with a boy enthus iastic for a boiling fuse in plastic in a foil that's used in wrappings, you're a toy that's spewing wack shit
- and you're Poised for fueling tragic, happenings if you dare rap against
- the antonym of heaven sent or happiness, My mental rants' the assonance of the devil's plan, I'm destined for reverence
- You're a vestige that's meant to end, so full stop, you're sentenced and
- to all you desparate degenerates, this is my message..sent
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