Intro (Spoken) He thinks copying is craft. It’s not. Verse 1 He stole the posture, missed the spine, Memorized the surface, skipped the time, Every move looks right till it’s pressed, Then it folds under basic stress. He rehearses confidence in private, Forgets it shakes when it goes live, Wears borrowed edges, dull as hell, Trying to pass off someone else’s cell. Pre-Chorus He wants applause without the cost, Hands out, brain off, balance lost. Chorus He’s walking around in borrowed shoes, Too stiff to move, just stuck in views, He wants the shine, the scars, the proof, Still can’t even tip the truth. No — can’t tip the truth. Verse 2 He quotes success like it’s contagious, Cuts the story where it gets dangerous, Skips the grind, fast-forwards pain, Then wonders why nothing stays the same. Calls it vision, calls it fate, But everything he does arrives late, If depth was required, he’d never start, All echo, no engine, no actual part. Pre-Chorus He’s close enough to watch it land, Still miles away from understanding how. Chorus He’s walking around in borrowed shoes, Trying to flex someone else’s moves, He wants the shine, the scars, the proof, Still can’t even tip the truth. Bridge (Spoken) Real costs more than imitation. He keeps choosing the discount version. Final Chorus Let him pose, let him rehearse, Every copy somehow worse, Others paid in sweat and youth, He’s still short — can’t tip the truth. Outro You can fake the sound, fake the stance, Still won’t earn the circumstance.
