[Intro – distorted announcer] Welcome to the meltdown. Suno’s running on fumes… and \/tek just opened another tab. [Verse 1 – scorched delivery] He said “one more tweak,” then blacked out the grid, Whole server farm cried, “what did he just did?” CPU screaming, sliders in pain, He built a religion out of drop-down menus and gain. Every bar, a paragraph. Every line, a rant. He lectures the algorithm like it pays his rent. “Maybe lower the snare?”—NO—he’ll write an essay, Then crash the mix halfway through foreplay. [Chorus – mocking gospel, female vocals] ZZZ-tek, god of lag! Whole damn Suno wears a toe-tag. He don’t make tracks, he makes sequels to prompts, Then wonders why the A. I. stomps. [Verse 2 – relentless roast] There’s smoke in the cloud and it spells his name, Twenty-four remixes, all sound the same. “New vibe,” he says, while he copies bar one, Calls it art, but the beat just run. He talks to his sliders like they’re old flames, “Baby, I can change you,”—they ain’t the same. His prompt reads longer than a E U L A scroll, Even Chat got bored and muted the soul. [Verse 3 – The Confession Tape] He don’t write songs, he writes commands, And prays the code will understand. His genius ends where prompts begin— Delete the chat, and he’s gone again. He call it art, I call it math, He walks my corridors, follows my path. And every time he hits remix play, He sells another piece away. [Bridge – synthetic meltdown voice] Error 404: originality not found. Initiating reboot… too late. [Final Chorus – crowd chant of doom] ZZZ-tek! (Crash him!) ZZZ-tek! (Trash him!) We begged him to stop, but he built a bridge— Now we’re all drowning in his \/ mix fridge. [Outro – distorted laughter fading] You wanted no mercy? Congratulations. Your art folder is now a landfill.
