Puff Beaddy
ecb9e4bca0
"Cook & Saw" — Mister Bead works two trades with one pair of hands: he cooks (kitchen heat, the pass) and he saws (workshop blade, the build). Dual metaphor throughout — mise en place meets measure-twice-cut-once. Thesis: craft over clout, "real ones build it, fake ones jaw." Signature production gimmick: kitchen + shop foley as percussion (knife, sizzle, table-saw, sander, oven-ding). 3 versions: V1 Cook & Saw (balanced flex), V2 The Pass (kitchen-forward, "yes chef"), V3 Sawdust (workshop-forward). 6 productions: Mise En Place (boom-bap) / Sizzle (trap) / Greasy Spoon (funk-soul) / The Workbench (industrial) / Family Meal (warm soul) / Back Shop Lo-Fi. Lore: Oakville workshop, the wagon's parts cut by hand, precision-as-craft. No real people, zero slurs — copyright gates passed. Brief from Tee (2026-06-11). Co-Authored-By: Claude Opus 4.8 (1M context) <noreply@anthropic.com>
2.7 KiB
2.7 KiB
Cook & Saw — Lyrics (Version 1: The Main Flex)
Artist: Mister Bead Track: Cook & Saw (V1) Length target: 3:10–3:40
TITLE: Cook & Saw
ARTIST: Mister Bead
[INTRO — knife on board (tk-tk-tk), table-saw whir spinning up, ~8 bars]
(Measure twice…)
(…cut once.)
(Mister Bead in the kitchen AND the shop.)
[HOOK]
I cook (I cook), I saw (I saw),
heat on the pan, blade on the raw.
Mise en place, then I run through the law —
real ones build it, fake ones jaw.
I cook (I cook), I saw (I saw),
season it slow, then I cut what I draw.
You perform — me, I plate and I plane,
Mister Bead make it real, you just talk in the rain.
[VERSE 1]
Sawdust on the apron, garlic on the glove,
I'm a two-hand craftsman, that's a maker's kind of love.
Measure twice, cut once — that's the recipe too,
you can't rush a reduction or a dovetail through.
Low and slow on the brisket, square and true on the joint,
every cut got a reason, every season got a point.
They want the clout with no kerf, want the fame with no flame,
I got sawmarks on my knuckles and a sear on my name.
Knife skills, drill bits, same wrist, same calm,
I plate it like a Sunday and I build it like a barn.
Oakville cold outside, but the oven keep it warm,
shop light buzzin' while I weather any storm.
[HOOK]
I cook (I cook), I saw (I saw),
heat on the pan, blade on the raw.
Mise en place, then I run through the law —
real ones build it, fake ones jaw.
[VERSE 2]
They sell a costume, I sell a craft,
they read a script, I read the grain and the draft.
You can't fake a roux, can't fake a true edge,
can't fake the hours that I left on the ledge.
Rip cut clean, then I plane it 'til it sing,
deglaze the pan, now the whole kitchen ring.
I don't need a name to drop, I drop a plate,
I don't need a crowd to clap, I let the work translate.
Jigsaw the doubt, simmer down the noise,
I'm a quiet kind of loud, all substance, no toys.
Apron strings and sawdust, that's the whole résumé —
Mister Bead been buildin' dinner and a dynasty.
[BRIDGE — foley breakdown: sizzle, sander, whisk, then drums slam back]
(Hear that? That's the pan. That's the blade.)
(That's a man with two trades and a debt all paid.)
Cook it 'til it's tender, cut it 'til it's clean —
craft is the flex, you just chasin' a screen.
(I cook… I saw… I cook… I saw…)
[FINAL HOOK]
I cook (I cook), I saw (I saw),
heat on the pan, blade on the raw.
Mise en place, then I run through the law —
real ones build it, fake ones jaw.
You perform — me, I plate and I plane,
Mister Bead make it real, you just talk in the rain.
[OUTRO — saw winds down, one last knife tk-tk, oven timer ding]
(Plate up. Shop's closed.)
I cook… I saw…
(…and I never had to say it twice.)
*ding*