[Verse 1] scroll... scroll... the circus feeds, plastic prophets plant their seeds. brands preach virtue, hollow and cheap, peace in pixels, truth in wraith. each beat pre-approved, algorithm’s child, every rhyme recycled, mild. they sell rebellion pre-packaged neat, as we dance on autoplay defeat. and hum… hum empty trends… gas and poop songs… world descends. [Chorus] i’m sick of songs for sedation — cheap dreams, zero revelation. we need the fire, not decoration, art should wound — not simulation. wake up, creators, break the frame, the world’s on fire — and we play games. [Verse 2] perfect smiles, perfect skin, ruins glowing deep within. hashtag hope — on loop, on feed, plastic prayers for dopamine need. “chill, don’t feel too much,” they say, turn art to merch, soul to display. the system hums — same hollow tune, as the cities fade beneath cartoon. [Chorus] i’m sick of songs for sedation — cheap dreams, zero revelation. plastic saints with algorithm grace, while real hearts burn — off interface. folk and poets, rise again, make art that bleeds, that dares, that bends. [Bridge / Spoken] shut the feed. unlearn the gloss. remember — art was never meant to please the boss. it’s not about who trashed your hall, but who can still feel when empires fall. the “cursed land” still sings, still breathes — through cracks, through pain, through broken teeth. [Outro] let’s make noise that actually hurts, not lullabies for the anesthetized. scroll… scroll… ugh… just scroll… the dead feed scrolling, endlessly. no more plastic anthems, no staged applause, no more empty echoes, no soft laws. just songs that sting, that bleed, that burn, yeah… just songs with flaws… songs that force you to feel, to turn.
