[Cold Open]
[Drum break already playing]
[Baritone sax]
BRAA—BA!
BRAA—BA!
[DJ scratch]
[Voz ultragrave]
Everybody talks.
Show me your hands.
[Verse 1 - rap]
You got opinions
with clean fingernails,
big vocabulary,
zero details.
You tell me:
“Work harder.”
Cool.
What did you build?
You tell me:
“Stay hungry.”
Cool.
When did you last
miss a meal?
Everybody loves
a sentence
when somebody else
has to live it.
I stopped listening
to advice
from people
who never risked
looking stupid.
That narrowed the room.
Good.
More oxygen.
[Baritone sax]
BRAA—BA!
BRAA—BA!
I like the ones
with scratched hands,
late replies,
bad shirts,
real stories.
Not inspirational.
Useful.
[Beat Stop]
[Voz]
Talk less.
[Full guitars explode]
[Chorus]
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
SHOW ME WHAT YOU MADE!
DON’T GIVE ME FIRE
IF YOU NEVER TOUCHED A FLAME!
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
SCARS SPEAK CLEAR!
I CAN’T HEAR YOUR BIG WORDS
OVER WHAT YOU NEVER DID!
[Gang]
DO IT!
DO IT!
[Lead]
OR MOVE!
[Guitars cut instantly]
[Verse 2 - rap over bass + drums]
My mechanic
doesn’t say much.
Best philosopher
I know.
He once looked
at my dead engine,
then looked at me:
“You keep driving
when things sound wrong?”
I said:
“Sometimes.”
He said:
“Yeah.
I can tell.”
That hurt.
Useful.
Twenty minutes later
he was elbow-deep
in something oily
while I stood there
thinking about
every relationship
I’d ever had.
That’s the problem
with good advice.
Sometimes it arrives
holding a wrench.
[DJ scratch]
[Rhodes chord]
[Flow switches faster]
I’ve met loud men
with nothing behind it,
quiet women
who rebuilt whole lives
before breakfast.
So spare me
the performance.
I’m not impressed
by volume anymore.
[Baritone sax]
BRAA—BA!
BRAA—BA!
[Beat Stop]
[Voz grave]
Show me.
[Chorus]
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
SHOW ME WHAT YOU MADE!
DON’T GIVE ME FIRE
IF YOU NEVER TOUCHED A FLAME!
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
SCARS SPEAK CLEAR!
I CAN’T HEAR YOUR BIG WORDS
OVER WHAT YOU NEVER DID!
[Gang]
DO IT!
DO IT!
[Lead]
OR MOVE!
[Break - no guitars]
[Drums + scratching]
[Voz, almost spoken]
My grandfather
fixed everything
with three tools.
I own nineteen.
He fixed more.
[Small pause]
Embarrassing.
[Baritone sax solo]
BRAAAA—
BA-BA!
BRAA—BA!
[Drums answer]
[Final Verse - half rap, half shout]
So I’m learning.
Badly.
That’s fine.
Learning badly
beats talking perfectly.
I’ll break something.
Fix it.
Break it again.
At least
my fingerprints
will be on the mistake.
That’s mine.
I can live with mine.
[Full guitars slam in without build]
[Final Chorus]
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
DON’T SELL ME A DREAM!
SHOW ME THE DIRT
IN THE PARTS NOBODY SEES!
TALK WITH YOUR HANDS!
LET THE WORK SPEAK FIRST!
IF YOU GOT SOMETHING REAL—
[Band cuts]
[Voz ultragrave]
you won’t need
to rehearse it.
[Final hit]
[Gang]
DO IT!
[Outro]
[Baritone sax]
BRAA—BA!
[DJ scratch]
[Voz]
Everybody talks.
[Small pause]
Hands don’t.
