Watch the master with the clipboard, scripting disaster, getting faster with the pencil Every gesture's a lesson in Lester, the actor playing gentle, but the tensile strength is mental I'm the director, the sole collector of correct perspective, the selective architect Who checks the reflection, expects perfection, rejects the concept of "defect" β correct? I see the streets as a set piece, the weak freeze, the elite breathe elite breeze My masterpiece thesis increases the peace by decreasing the lease of the deceased β please It's not the cash, it's the clash of the symmetry, the flash of the injury to memory The splash of the emery on the enamel, the elegant felony, celery on the deli meat I'm framing the picture, naming the mixture, claiming the fixture's lame if it's scripture The game is a fixture, the frame is a stricture, the aim is to picture the shame as a stricture? Naw It's art. It's smart. It's a chart in the heart that marks the part where the spark meets the dark The concept's clean, a perfect scene, a latent sheen The steps convene, a serpentine, a patient green The threads are spun, the trap is sprung, the dates are done The one is one, the game is won β I rate it fun. I move the scene like proof the dream is crude machine Improve the scheme, remove the loose, improve the glue between The moves are smooth, the groove is true, the suit is clean Whose view is whose? Whose cue is who? Whose muse is mean? Think I'm fast? Watch me stretch a second into seven acts of heaven, weapon-laced confetti, heavy-pressure blessing, steady dressing up the lesson, never second-guess investing in the guessing game, the name is fame and shame the same β aim, claim, frame the flame! I calculate the weight of fate, the bait is great, I situate the slate straight, ornate The mandate's "fate is fabricate," I separate the trait from trait, the state I generate is great The blueprint's beauty, it's a duty to the truth of my pursuit, it's brute, it's loot, it's flute I execute the suit, the salute to the absolute, it's cute β I compute the route and shoot. Now watch the pieces lock, the fleece is flock, the grease is on the lock, release the clock The peace is mock, the lease is stock, the geese are cocked, the masterpiece is stock? That's stock? It's stock. I see the face I need to place, the space I need to case, the grace I need to trace and chase The base is bass, the ace is lace, the case is β wait, his face is wrong. Replace the pace. The nose is wrong, the pose is long, the clothes don't throng the song The prose is strong, but those don't belong, he's not the one I chose to prolong I'm forcing the vision, divorcing precision, endorsing the fission with vicious derision The court of decision is roaring, "Revision!" I'm warping the mission, it's torn, it's a incision He's supposed to be me, but he's supposed to be free? He's frozen, you see? The pose is a plea He's close, but he's not. He's a dot, not a spot. I rot in the thought that the plot's getting hot And I'm caught in the knot that I sought. I forgot: the director's subject to the shot. The frame contains the same last name, the game's a shame The claim's a stain, the aim's the same, the flame's too tame The mirror's near, the clearer fear, the sneer is sheer The idea's clear β the idea's here β the seer's a mere... I found the one who grounds the sun and sounds the same I crowned the one who drowned the fun and fouled the name I bound the one who hounds the hunt and pounds the claim I'm found β undone β the hound has won, the game is lame. No wait, hold up, rewind, I'm lying β he's not matching, the patch is stretching, the sketch is sketching a reflection I'm regretting, forgetting the setting, I'm getting the message: the fetish is fettered, the credited debtor is better when tethered to weathered leather, whatever β let's sever the clever endeavor, I'm clever however the lever is never whatever forever... Let me stop. Let me drop the act and just look at the facts flat The contact was contact, the pact was a scrap I snapped at I built a cathedral out of a crack in the plaster Made a master out of a bastard shΠ°dΠΎw, now the laughter's faster The joke's on me, the smoke's in me, the broke's in me The stroke of genius? Just a poke at what? A hoax, you see? I wanted brilliant, got brittle. Wanted symbol, got simple. Wanted dimple in the chin, got pimple on the nipple of a riddle. So here's the truth they'll never print: the hint was in the flinch The minute I saw him wince, I knew the prince was just a pinch Of salt, a halt, a fault, a vault with nothing in it The beginning was the ending, I was just pretending to begin it.
