# Cook & Saw — Lyrics (Version 3: Sawdust)

**Artist:** Mister Bead
**Track:** Cook & Saw (V3 — workshop-forward)
**Length target:** 3:00–3:30

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TITLE: Cook & Saw (Sawdust)
ARTIST: Mister Bead

[INTRO — shop door rolls up, table saw spins, pencil behind the ear click, ~8 bars]
(Square it. Level it.)
(Sawdust in the lungs, that's the smell of done.)
(Mister Bead in the shop.)

[HOOK]
Sawdust (sawdust), I build what I want,
measure twice in my head 'fore the blade get to front.
You buy it off a shelf, I cut it from the trunk,
Mister Bead make a throne out of two-by-four junk.
Sawdust (sawdust), I cut and I cook,
every joint that I make is a verse and a hook.
Real hands, real grain, real proof in the work —
you just postin' the receipt, I'm the one with the dirt.

[VERSE 1]
Rip cut, cross cut, miter forty-five,
I been makin' somethin' real since the day I arrived.
Grain don't lie, a level don't bend,
a crooked little shortcut is a job you redo, friend.
I sand it 'til it's silk, I joint it 'til it's true,
glue-up overnight, clamp it, let it cure through.
The wagon in the driveway? I cut half them parts,
Oakville cold garage where the cold project starts.
Pencil behind the ear, tape measure on the hip,
I don't talk about the build, I just let the sawdust drip.

[HOOK]
Sawdust (sawdust), I build what I want,
measure twice in my head 'fore the blade get to front.
You buy it off a shelf, I cut it from the trunk,
Mister Bead make a throne out of two-by-four junk.

[VERSE 2]
Then I wash my hands and I light up the stove,
'cause a builder gotta eat from the trove that he wove.
Cook & saw, same code, same patient little law:
respect the material — the wood and the raw.
You can fake a flex, you can't fake a fit,
a drawer that don't close gon' expose all the sh— wait —
keep it clean: a joint that don't seat is a lie,
and I don't tell 'em, never have, that's the reason I'm fly.
Dovetail tight, dinner hot, day done right,
Mister Bead build the table AND the appetite.

[BRIDGE — sander whine, then it cuts to a single fingerpicked guitar]
At the end of the day, brush the dust off the bench,
plate a plate for the crew, pour a cup, take a wrench.
Nothin' bought it for me, I cut it, I cooked,
and the realest kind of rich is a life that you took
and you MADE — with your hands, with your heat, with your blade.
(Sawdust… sawdust… and the bills all paid.)

[FINAL HOOK]
Sawdust (sawdust), I build what I want,
measure twice in my head 'fore the blade get to front.
You buy it off a shelf, I cut it from the trunk,
Mister Bead make a throne out of two-by-four junk.
Real hands, real grain, real proof in the work —
you just postin' the receipt, I'm the one with the dirt.

[OUTRO — saw winds down, broom sweeping, oven ding far off]
(Shop swept. Dinner's on.)
Cook & saw… cook & saw…
(Made it myself. Every inch.)
```