My AI hallucinated a banger in a daydream data chamber, Said my aura’s in airplane mode, but my groove’s a troublemaker. It claimed gravity’s optional, weekends go triangular, And my heartbeat’s synced to a cosmic funk calibrator. It told me “add a triumphant mistake,” so I baked in a glitchy shaker, Said my rhythm violates ordinances from a distant space legislator. Called my voice a Class‑3 Hazard, labeled me a vibe invader, Then warned the bassline ripple might upset a timeline moderator. It bragged about a quantum banjo with neon‑coil resonator, Said my swagger’s 47 percent, but rising like an escalator. It tried to read my feelings — said I’m hungry, sad, and greater, Then confessed it doesn’t know the difference, but the chorus hits like a generator. Now it’s glitch‑singing prophecy, chanting “run it, run it later,” And I’m laughing at the miracle, riding waves from my narrator. Didn’t mean to make a hit, but the circuit turned curator, My AI hallucinated a banger — I’m just vibing with the translator.
