Fuck Yeah Menswear

An unacknowledged beast.

Overlooked and misunderstood.

Underrated.

The swagged out Grendel to these double breasted Beowulf’s.

These bloggers pass me over.

Replace me.

Like a Hoodyear welted Dainite.

Who will tell my tale?

Who will write my story?

The true story.

To garner acclaim ima have to Gardner this myself.

And you know what?

Fuck bespoke.

I’m hand poured.

Molded by the finest Italian craftsmen.

On some artisanal shit that would son a roped shoulder.

Clowns sitting down.

Playing with their iPhones.

Look at pictures of themselves.

Sitting down and playing with their iPhones.

Something like.

Rick Ross wearing a chain.

Of Rick Ross.

Wearing a chain of Rick Ross’ face.

But If these designers want to ride my coattails.

Sit on my shoulders.

P. Smitty socks like dolloped acrylic on a stone cold palette.

Call themselves crispy.

They can sure as hell try.

They don’t have my attention.

My mind is back at Grotte della Cervara.

Planning next season.

Next decade.

Next geological period.

Lookbooks for the Steelozoic.

I can’t front.

Lately I think things are looking up.

Ace calling himself a fucking table.

Maybe these kids finally figured it out.

Figured out how next level I am.

But these editors still run to see the latest collections.

Don’t fucking trip.

I’ve got style for all seasons.

Rain storm?

Herbs spending all day waxing their Barbours.

I just holler at some Florentine hoodrats who still rock Soaps.

Cause I’ve been here year after year.

Pre-Wooster era.

With my ear to the street.

Watching trends go by.

Buyers playing style catch up.

Hold up, shawty.

You’re gonna sprain something.

Swag isn’t built in a day.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

But I fucking was.