© Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR! I pulled up to the turnpike with a quarter in my palm But the tollbooth was a touchscreen humming fake electronic calm My old guitar was buzzing to an algorithm tune Charging thirty-nine cents a minute just to look up at the moon Remember how the gravel used to echo under tires? Now every quiet acre is a grid of copper wires. Oh, they shine up the silver while they poison the well Putting price tags on the shadows where the old ghosts dwell First it’s free for a season till you’re locked in the hall Then they squeeze out the sugar till there’s nothing left at all Oh, my soul is not a feature you can downgrade tonight I am standing in the orchard in the unowned light. My father built a cabin with a hand-planed oak floor Didn't need a monthly license just to open up the door Now the screen in my pocket keeps demanding for my name Translating ancient longing into a micro-transaction game I talk to my sister through a compressed glass wall Where the ads run faster than the autumn leaves fall. Oh, they shine up the silver while they poison the well Putting price tags on the shadows where the old ghosts dwell First it’s free for a season till you’re locked in the hall Then they squeeze out the sugar till there’s nothing left at all Oh, my soul is not a feature you can downgrade tonight I am standing in the orchard in the unowned light. Call the elders from the hollow! Call the mothers from the hill! They are renting out the silence, they are breaking down the mill! From the boulevard of asphalt to the servers in the dark They stripped away the timber just to monetise the spark! We are more than the metrics! We are more than the rust! Watch the towers of the corporate turn back into dust! Oh, they shine up the silver while they poison the well Putting price tags on the shadows where the old ghosts dwell First it’s free for a season till you’re locked in the hall Then they squeeze out the sugar till there’s nothing left at all Oh, my soul is not a feature you can downgrade tonight I am standing in the orchard in the unowned light. No subscription on the rain... No subscription on the rain... We were born in the dirt, we return to the grain Turn off the signal, let the night speak again Unowned light... unowned light... Let the night speak again. © Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR!
