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lyrics

Sick of the radio so I turned my swag off and pawned it. Traded Soulja Boy for a drag off The Chronic. There’s nothin’ on these frequencies that’s strikin’ me as honest. I’m tired of all these weak MC’s with half-assed rappin’ on it. I thought artists were supposed to blow up based on skill. Not because they have a chain or some diamonds in their grill. Not because they make up a dance and provide some cheap thrills. It’s not dead yet, but it’s sure as hell ill.

But how does such a sickness even get defined? Has rap become yet another disease of the mind? You made a million dollars rapping about balling and dancing and now the anti-swag villains are creepy crawling though your mansion. You see I wanted you to move me, but I didn't budge an inch. Now I'm coming harder with a scalpel and a stitch: hip-hop surgery. The scourge get purgatory. And the rest get the best: the fiends in their glory.

We’ll put a dagger to your swagger, once a braggart now a sagger. Better call the body bagger, coroner, the toe tagger. When you’re wrapped up tighter than your rap could be admired. Then we’ll whip out the lighter and we’ll douse your ass in fire. Together we conspire to make your temperature higher, using your Lamborghini as your funeral pyre. I know it’s a new sensation, but you need this revelation. Anti-Swag Fiend Party up with a new creation.

I don’t mean to boast and I don’t mean to brag, but I got more rhymes than most so I don’t need ya swag ‘cause I got lyrics and lyrics, when ya hear it ya fear it. What they play on the radio, I don’t go near it. It’s not about my appearance; it’s about interference caused by this new crap that’s too wack for true rap adherents. This trash is weighing down the rap game, we gotta burn it off. It’s played out with the swag, man. It’s time to turn it off.

So leave the switch down and keep the flames burning. Let the swag go and keep graves from turning. It's not right for me to say what a good rapper must be, but I have more love for rhymes that speak out to me. I'm trying to unearth songs that motivate and inspire and less tracks that detail the price of one's attire. So, your shoes are $450, but your lyrics don't lift me. We're here to fucking party, spike the punch with rhymes worth spitting.

There's only so much one can rap and so much one can talk, see what's on TV and believe that any got across, but I won't sit down and instead stand tall because I'm a stone wall, unphased and all, rooted to the ground, resisting any fall, speaking my mind because that's how I brawl. No, you shouldn't take this shot, but that's your call and we're down to tear it up if you're looking to get mauled.

Together we conspire when rap’s times are dire. While you’re busy gettin’ low, we’re tryin’ to take it higher. We’re anti-swag, pro-rap, so get used to the sound and if they get in our path – we’ll cut ‘em down.

credits

from We're Your Age (FREE DOWNLOAD), released October 21, 2011

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Anti-Swag Fiend Party Bloomington, Indiana

A duo of weirdos split across Bloomington, IN and Helsinki, Finland. We Stay squiddy. We don't feed our gremlins after midnight. And we keep our swag the hell off.

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