Raised Fist belong to the beat, 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 from
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 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.
Respect. If you want to characterize Raised Fist – one of Sweden's longest-running yet most vital acts in the hardcore scene – with just one word ...