[INTRO] I used to wait for somebody To write the song I needed. You know that feeling? Like— Almost. Love the beat. Love the hook. But that line? Nah. That story isn’t mine. … What if it was? [VERSE 1] Now I wake up And play a song about my life. Something made last night That didn’t exist at midnight. And I’m driving down the street Bopping to a line about a joke Only four people on Earth Would even fucking know. That’s weird. That’s really fucking weird. Because somehow I’m the artist, The listener, The subject, And the fan. I can make the thing that fuels me. Make the thing that makes me laugh. Make the thing that says exactly What I couldn’t say myself. And then hear it back. And somehow— It can still surprise me. [PRE] So maybe the question changes. Not: “Did you make this?” Maybe someday it’s just: “What did you do with it?” [CHORUS] Give me your version. I wanna hear your version. Same little spark Through a different person. Change the words. Change the story. Put your life inside the sound. Nothing stays finished Once we start passing it around. Give me your version. I’ll give you mine. Maybe that’s what music becomes Somewhere down the line. Not one song— A thousand doors. You heard what I heard. What did you hear more? [VERSE 2] Imagine your favorite song drops Friday. Everybody knows it by Saturday. But yours says the city Where you actually grew up. Your car. Your girl. Your friend. Your stupid fucking nickname. Same feeling— Different life. Then somebody changes the drums. Somebody strips the hook. Somebody hears sadness Where everybody heard love. Somebody takes the bridge And makes a completely different song. And suddenly nobody asks: “Which one’s the real one?” They ask: “Which one you got?” Oh shit. Send me that. [BREAK — BEAT CHANGES] Like trading cards. Songs in your phone. Rare little versions Only your people know. “You heard Maya’s one?” “Nah.” “Bro— Listen to this.” And for three minutes I get to step inside The way you remember somebody. That’s different. [VERSE 3] Maybe music stops being something We only consume. Maybe it becomes somewhere We meet. An idea gets released. You add yourself. I add myself. Somebody halfway across the world Finds something neither of us saw. And sends it back. Not because the original was wrong. Not because theirs is better. Because they heard an empty space And had something to put there. That’s creativity too, isn’t it? Maybe. I don’t fucking know. We’re still figuring out What to call all this. [CHORUS] Give me your version. I wanna hear your version. Same little spark Through a different person. Change the words. Change the story. Put your life inside the sound. Nothing stays finished Once we start passing it around. Give me your version. I’ll give you mine. Maybe that’s what music becomes Somewhere down the line. Not one song— A thousand doors. You heard what I heard. What did you hear more? [VERSE 4 — WIDER] And yeah— Somebody will want vinyl. Needle down. Original master. Human hands. No machine anywhere near it. Beautiful. Somebody else won’t give a shit. They just want something That makes their chest move. Beautiful. Somebody wants the painter. Somebody wants the prompt. Somebody wants imperfections Only a hand could leave behind. Somebody wants impossible shit No hand has ever made. Why does one have to kill the other? Find your room. Find your people. Find the shit that makes you feel. You don’t have to make everybody Want what you want. Maybe abundance doesn’t mean Everything becomes worthless. Maybe it means— You finally get to choose. [BRIDGE] And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we drown in infinite songs. Maybe when everything is personalized Nothing feels shared anymore. Maybe part of loving music Was knowing millions of strangers Were hearing the exact same words At the exact same time. I don’t want to lose that either. So maybe we keep both. The song everybody knows. And the version only you could make. [FINAL CHORUS] Give me your version. I wanna hear your version. Tell me who you are Without explaining it first. Give me the joke. Give me the memory. Give me the line Nobody else would understand. I’ll give you mine. You give me yours. Pass it around. Change it again. Maybe culture was always doing this. Maybe now— We can watch it happen. [OUTRO] One song. Ten versions. Ten thousand. A million. And somewhere in there— One that sounds like you. … Send me that one.
