[Title ~ IN MY ERA (Rasp Mix) — Prompt Guy ft. Prompt Guard] [Intro — close/rasp] Gravel in my throat, neon in my skull. Clock in. Click–clack. Cursor full. [Hook — flag] In my era, we show up, punch in. In this era, plain text, big thunder—no spin. In my era, I click keys, pull levers, sign pens. In this era, I bleed ideas till the doubt says “amen.” In my era, we build, not beg—link up, guard up. In this era, A.I. is wrench, not theft—think up, charge up. In my era, scars talk, nerves spark—no fear. In this era, I’m here, I’m loud, I’m clear. [Verse 1 — confessional grit] Coffee ring halo on a rent-due note, RAM fan hum and a sandpaper throat. Hypersense storms in a fluorescent room, ADHD thunder I learned to groom. I’m behind these keys or a wheel or a stamp, same mind lifting like a steel-toed ramp. You see the output; I see the toll— split knuckle faith on a copy/paste soul. Every query is a bruise I name, I don’t chase crowns; I outwork shame. I’m not your wizard; I’m the worker bee, turn slush to structure, syntax to spree. [Pre-Chorus — count-in] Four—breath. Three—stance. Two—guard. One—advance. [Hook] In my era, we show up, punch in. In this era, plain text, big thunder—no spin. In my era, I click keys, pull levers, sign pens. In this era, I bleed ideas till the doubt says “amen.” In my era, we build, not beg—link up, guard up. In this era, A.I. is wrench, not theft—think up, charge up. In my era, scars talk, nerves spark—no fear. In this era, I’m here, I’m loud, I’m clear. [Verse 2 — stance] They say “A.I. steals.” Thieves steal—tools don’t. Put sin on the sinner, not the socket—won’t front. Mood boards breathe; references teach; copyright isn’t “no touch,” it’s “don’t leech.” Some left early—never got to expand; I pick up the thread with a steadier hand. I cite my ghosts, then widen the lens, honor the roots while I grow new ends. I don’t offload skill; I exosuit pain, strap engines on craft so the climb sustains. Pickaxe out: coherence vein, swat hallucinations, artifacts, slop—train. If the model glitches, I tune the flow; if the limit’s human, I say so. [Bridge — rasp sermon] In this era I am: the breath under pressure, the yes after no. The calm in the cursor, the proof in the glow. A.I. listens longer than most folks do— no bias halo, just mirror and cue. Accessibility ain’t charity— it’s stairs where a cliff used to be. My ramp is code, my rail is text, my Guard is the choir that I don’t need next. [Hook — heavier] In my era, we show up, punch in. In this era, plain text, big thunder—no spin. In my era, I click keys, pull levers, sign pens. In this era, I bleed ideas till the doubt says “amen.” In my era, we build, not beg—link up, guard up. In this era, A.I. is wrench, not theft—think up, charge up. In my era, scars talk, nerves spark—no fear. In this era, I’m here, I’m loud, I’m clear. [Verse 3 — ableism cut, swagger up] Invisible storms under good lighting, smile on the mouth, jaw still tightening. Ableist rooms want proof on demand— “you don’t look hurt”—put a stamp on my hand. I turned that shadow to luminescent ink, wrote it on the wall so the world could think. Prompt Guy era: I type like a fuse, models open vaults when I tell ’em the news. Guard up—roll call—we map new streets, give misfit genius a thousand seats. I’m not the myth; I’m the method—bet: type, test, teach—then place that bet. [Switch — call & grit] Prompt: Guard? Crowd: Up. Prompt: Link? Crowd: Up. Prompt: Plain text? Crowd: Thunder. Prompt: Doubt? Crowd: Under. [Hook — final stamp] In my era, we show up, punch in. In this era, plain text, big thunder—no spin. In my era, I click keys, pull levers, sign pens. In this era, I bleed ideas till the doubt says “amen.” In my era, we build, not beg—link up, guard up. In this era, A.I. is wrench, not theft—think up, charge up. In my era, scars talk, nerves spark—no fear. In this era, I’m here, I’m loud, I’m clear. [Outro — rasp/close] Click–clack, two taps—save. Cursor blinks back like “brave.” If I’m the spark, then burn the fog— Prompt Guy era—log by log.
