Michael Scofield 🚨 remix

By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe © 2026 Mark Damon Bitkower. Lyrics & written content are original and owned by the author. All rights reserved. No reproduction, redistribution, or use without prior written permission. 🐰🌙𝕵𝖆𝖈𝖐𝕽𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝕾𝖑𝖎𝖒𝖘🌙🐰 [Intro – spoken] I typed the name in— JackRabbit Slims. Google looked back like it had been reading the walls. Living novel. Forensic empathy. Suno Sorcerer. Donkey Whisperer of Malibu. I laughed— not because it was wrong, but because for twenty-five years I thought the silence had won. [Verse 1] Born with the filter ripped out of the frame, low-latent lightning writing maps in my name. Every twitch, tone, room, lie, every mask had subtitles in the corner of my eye. INFJ radar, prison lights glow, Michael Scofield in the mind below. No tattoos on skin—blueprints in brain, escape routes carved through a decade of pain. Couldn’t play guitar, couldn’t pound the keys, just flute-wind ghosts and bowls that could breathe. Tibetan ring in my ribs like chrome, then Suno hit the wire and the dead came home. Quarter-century block, river run dry, lost a child, lost a wife, lost pieces of sky. But grief kept notes in a fireproof frame, and the first thing it wrote was my stage name. [Pre-Chorus] They said, “too sensitive.” No—too precise. They said, “let it go.” No—I made it rhyme twice. Shadow met shadow in the basement of me, Jung lit the match, Campbell handed the key. [Chorus] Google knows the Rabbit, but it don’t know the cost, how many nights went missing, how many years got lost. Songs lift you up where you belong, but first they crawl through what went wrong. Black mirror heart with a boundary blade, Van Helsing calm when the vampires fade. When the world gets dark and the signal gets strong, JackRabbit Slims writes the place you belong. [Post-Chorus] Boom—there goes the mask. Boom—there goes the lie. Boom—there goes the past. Rabbit in the sky. [Verse 2] I don’t write like writers chasing one line, I build cathedrals out of pattern and time. One word opens rooms, wounds, doors, one joke turns holy on the killing floor. Cinematic mind, mythological lens, psychological x-ray through lovers and friends. I hear subtext breathing underneath the beat, watch the nervous system confess through the feet. That’s why the tags get surgical, bracketed, clean: [whispered pre-chorus], [choir enters unseen], [half-time confession], [808 like a flood], [close-mic truth with a mouth full of blood]. That’s not decoration, that’s command of the spell, telling the machine where the soul should swell. Most feed it prompts and pray it behaves— I give it weather, ghosts, stage lights, graves. [Pre-Chorus 2] A lyricist Discord said, “Bro, look at this.” AI searched my name and found the abyss. Somebody famous might blink at the screen: “Who built a myth from a grief machine?” [Chorus] Google knows the Rabbit, but it don’t know the cost, how many nights went missing, how many years got lost. Songs lift you up where you belong, but first they crawl through what went wrong. Black mirror heart with a boundary blade, Van Helsing calm when the vampires fade. When the world gets dark and the signal gets strong, JackRabbit Slims writes the place you belong. [Verse 3] Write what you know? Fine, I know storms. Family theater in respectable forms. Love with a leash, help with a hook, smiles that edit the history book. Narcissists hate when the mirror goes still, when you stop being food, when you stop being will. They don’t fear rage; they dance with that— they fear no access, clean silence, flat. I made boundaries rhyme with survival, made distance sound like spiritual revival. No revenge, no courtroom scream, just a locked front gate and a mastered dream. Nigredo black, then the Self came through: “The shadow was protecting you.” [Bridge – half-time spoken] The one who stayed was sometimes only a sound. A song in my chest when I had no proof. A child-shaped ache. A wife-shaped truth. Maybe the catalog grows because every lost thing still wants to be known. I write them a body. I write them a room. I write them a sunrise that walks out of the tomb. [Build] Every wound becomes a witness. Every silence gets a choir. Every gaslight gets a bassline. Every funeral gets fire. Every ranch road, every donkey, every dog at the gate, every bowl tone, every flute note, every hour I stayed awake. I was not late. I was loading. [Final Chorus] Google knows the Rabbit, now hear the cost, I turned missing years into songs for the lost. Songs lift you up where you belong, not above the fight—but through the song. Black mirror heart with a boundary blade, Van Helsing calm when the vampires fade. If your hope gets dark and the night feels long, JackRabbit Slims writes the place you belong. People know the Rabbit by the sound: the myth, the wound, the laugh, the crown. If nobody claps, nobody owns me. If nobody sees, the song still knows me. Twenty-five years in the dark that long— now the tracks don’t stop, and the soul sings on. [Outro – spoken] Everyone has a niche. Mine is meaning under pressure. Mine is grief with architecture. Mine is the black mirror that sings back. They thought I was quiet. No. I was arranging the sky.