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>
2.5 KiB
2.5 KiB
Cook & Saw — Lyrics (Version 2: The Pass)
Artist: Mister Bead Track: Cook & Saw (V2 — kitchen-forward) Length target: 3:00–3:30
TITLE: Cook & Saw (The Pass)
ARTIST: Mister Bead
[INTRO — kitchen ambience, ticket printer, a pan catches fire WHOOMP, ~8 bars]
(Heard! — two on the fly!)
(Mister Bead on the pass.)
(Yes, chef.)
[HOOK]
On the pass, on the pass, I don't miss,
sear it hard, plate it clean, blow a kiss.
You microwave a moment, I reduce it to bliss,
Mister Bead cook the truth — put your fork up to this.
(Yes chef, yes chef — heat it up)
(Yes chef, yes chef — eat it up)
[VERSE 1]
Mise en place 'fore the rush, everything in its lane,
sharpened steel, steady hand, low flame in my brain.
I don't panic when it's eighty tickets deep,
I just breathe through the fire like a promise I keep.
Salt early, taste often, that's a life and a sauce,
you skip the foundation, that's a flavor and a loss.
They platin' for the photo, I'm platin' for the soul,
garnish ain't a cover for a dish with a hole.
Knife go tk-tk-tk, that's my metronome,
the kitchen is a country and I'm cookin' it home.
[HOOK]
On the pass, on the pass, I don't miss,
sear it hard, plate it clean, blow a kiss.
You microwave a moment, I reduce it to bliss,
Mister Bead cook the truth — put your fork up to this.
[VERSE 2]
Low and slow teach patience, high heat teach nerve,
every burn on my forearm is a lesson I earned.
I can saw too — don't forget the other hand,
build the table that I serve it on, that's the whole plan.
Cook the feast, craft the bench, set the family seat,
that's a maker and a feeder, that's a heartbeat complete.
You can't plate a personality, can't plate a brand,
the proof is in the eatin', put the dish in they hand.
Reduce, reduce — I cut the water from the claim,
what's left is concentrated, that's the Mister Bead name.
[BRIDGE — sizzle + a slow whisk, strings swell]
The best seat in the house is the stool by the stove,
where the realest conversation and the warmest meals rove.
I don't cook for the camera, I cook for the room —
the ones who stayed hungry, I be feedin' 'em soon.
(On the pass… on the pass…)
[FINAL HOOK]
On the pass, on the pass, I don't miss,
sear it hard, plate it clean, blow a kiss.
You microwave a moment, I reduce it to bliss,
Mister Bead cook the truth — put your fork up to this.
(Yes chef, yes chef — heat it up)
[OUTRO — plates stacking, exhale, hood fan winds down]
(Service done. Family meal.)
On the pass… all night…
(Sit down. Eat. You earned it.)