Raised Fist belong to the beat, our sound from open windows to the street. This beat always on repeat, from d-takt to a f**ing blastbeat. Now let me contemplate when I dedicate this song to the instigators that seem to levitate from joy when sh** 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 f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. We will drop when our f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. When I jump up, look under both of my feet. Commander up here, you are obsolete. Och även om du snackar skit, it’s just a receipt, a proof of you feeling incomplete. Now let me contemplate when I dedicate this song to the instigators that seem to levitate from joy when sh** 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 f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. We will drop when our f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. What's going on? This beat will repeat. What's going on? This beat will repeat. This beat will repeat. From windows to the street. This beat will repeat. This beat will repeat. From windows to the street. We will drop when our f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. We will drop when our f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot. We will drop when our f**ing hearts stop. From the club to the squat, you people chose the spot.