[Verse 1] Quarter past midnight, cold coffee by the keys, Half a chorus on the desktop when you walked across my screen. White House, bright lights, billionaires arranged like trophies, Selling us tomorrow while the camera cropped the groceries. “Super Intelligence.” I stopped the clip and played it back. Same tools on my desktop—when’d they get a brain transplant? Opened up the order, read beneath the proclamation: Section Three—same category, presidential decoration. Put a cape around a calculator, pose beside the upgrade; A bigger name won’t make the engine better than the brochure claims. I know the sales routine: tap the chrome, distract the buyer, Talk about the horsepower while the dashboard flashes fire. Then I watched the faces, every handshake raised a question: Who’s advising? Who’s investing? Who gets paid for the connection? Saved my song, pulled up the filings, let the chorus wait. You stepped into my workshop. Now we’re checking what you made. [Pre-Hook] Pause the applause. Bring up the sheet. Who owns the promise? Who owes the fee? [Hook] Show the ree-SEETS—who gets paid? Who holds the bag when the gold paint fades? You sold the future. What’s the fee? Show the ree-SEETS. Show the ree-SEETS. [Verse 2] February filings—both your sons were on the paper, Million each invested, equity for advisory labour. Purchase isn’t profit; I won’t blur it for a punchline, But the family’s at the table while the country’s in the lunch line. Share awards, milestones—follow every entry. Where’s the firewall between the office and the equity? I pictured someone on a bus calculating payday; They don’t get a presidential podium to make their trade play. Next tab: DOGE. You and Musk were selling scissors: Cut the waste, drain the swamp, watch the savings make us richer. Then the audit checked a health IT claim you couldn’t stand: One-point-seven billion—no savings on that contract plan. Accounting séance, summon sums into existence; Ghost money gets stage fright under independent witness. Old lease cuts in fresh clothes, grant methods unverified— Before you sell another future, let the last one testify. [Pre-Hook] Pause the applause. Bring up the sheet. Who owns the promise? Who owes the fee? [Hook] Show the ree-SEETS—who gets paid? Who holds the bag when the gold paint fades? You sold the future. What’s the fee? Show the ree-SEETS. Show the ree-SEETS. [Verse 3] Third tab: Meta. I remembered all the goggles, Everybody’s future floating somewhere in a digital model. Renamed the whole company, bet the sign above the entrance; Reality Labs kept losses. Reality kept attendance. Nineteen billion in a year. I leaned back from the monitor. How many failed tomorrows buy you “trusted future” honours? Sam’s forecasts in the next tab, timelines drawing capital— A date inside an interview ain’t proof the thing is actual. Then I pictured what the cameras never lingered on: Server racks beyond the houses, humming till the winter dawn. Kitchen table, bill unfolded, mother reaching for a pencil, Hunting for the “public benefit” inside the extra decimal. Put her chair beside the billionaires. Let her finish speaking. Ask who pays for all the wiring if the promised profits weaken. My song can work tomorrow while a stock loses altitude; Don’t staple every market bet to something useful tools can do. [Bridge — beat drops] Closed the tabs. Kept the notes. Played the speech again. Pictured chairs For the people missing. Then I took the mic. [Final Verse] Kash, let the cash trail run wherever the ree-SEETS lead; A watchdog needs teeth, not a loyalty-test leash. Pete, put a defence behind the pitch instead of posture: A chest full of confidence can’t carry public costs, sir. Iran across the headlines, families under pressure; Don’t sell a word like “strength” without accounting for the wreckage. Flags around the lectern, questions waiting in the margins— Patriotism ain’t a curtain you can pull across the ledger. Musk, let the audit speak before another celebration. Zuck, explain the last bet before another christening. Sam, bring the evidence; the prophecy can wait. Trump, let the journalist finish—no threats to clear the plate. I’m Jack Righteous. This is where I make the work: Where the rough draft gets examined, where the pretty claim gets hurt. AI opened doors I couldn’t buy my way inside— I won’t hand you all the hinges just because you brought a sign. Publish interests. Publish costs. Let outside scrutiny breathe. Give the town enforceable terms before you ask it to believe. You walked into my world expecting everybody’s cheers— I pulled up another chair. Sit down. The questions start here. [Final Hook] Show the ree-SEETS—who gets paid? Who holds the bag when the gold paint fades? You sold the future. What’s the fee? Jack Righteous. SHOW THE REE-SEETS.
