Raised Fist

Flow

our sound from open windows to the street.
This beat always on repeat,
from d-takt to a fucking blastbeat.
Now let me contemplate when I dedicate this song
to the instigators that seem to levitate of joy
when shit goes wrong.
I want to participate in the debate,
fascinated of how you fabricate stories about how much money we made.
Let’s get this straight, the first decade was unpaid.
We will drop when our fucking hearts stop.
From the club to the squat, you people choose the spot.
When I jump up, look under both of my feet.
Commander up here, you are so obsolete.
Och även om du snackar skit, it’s just a receipt, a proof of you feeling
incomplete.