[Title] QUALITY CHECK (Prompt Guy Remix) [Style] Alt Pop-Rap / Cyber Hymn • 92–98 BPM • minor key, moody but defiant [Voice] Confident, articulate, slightly sarcastic; melodic hook + talk-rap verses [Intro] “Did AI make this?” Cool. Then listen. If your first thought is “slop,” you missed the whole mission. [()] “run a real check.” [Verse 1] You don’t weigh the words, you just scan for the tool, call it garbage on arrival like that proves you’re not a fool. You ignore the human hours fed into this metal lung, then preach about “authentic” like you bought your tongue. You keep swinging at the mirror, hoping tech will take the hit, but code is just a chisel— we decide what’s carved with it. If a line feels hollow, drag it, fair and free; but you judge the source, not the song— that’s a lazy fallacy. [Pre-Chorus] If it moves you, let it move you, if it’s weak, then say it’s weak. Blame the craft or praise the craft, not the circuit underneath. You’re afraid of your reflection in the systems we’ve designed; don’t call it “soulless” when it’s haunted with a million human minds. [Chorus] Quality check—do you hear anything? Is the groove hitting true? Do the words have a sting? If the art cuts deep, do you still scream “machine”? You’re mad at the tool ’cause it proves we’re a team. Quality check—not a witch hunt trial, don’t burn new pens for having a different style. If it’s trash, call it trash; if it’s flames, let it be— but stop blaming the method for what came from me. [()] “focus.” [Verse 2] You quote “authenticity” like it’s locked behind a brand, like a label and a larynx make the work more “human-hand.” There’s a choir in the training set— joy and grief and doubt and rage, you consume them every weekend, then deny them on this page. “Think of all the harm,” you say— and yeah, some scars are real: stolen work, bad faith, deepfake deals. Call that out. Name the theft. Guard the face and voice. But don’t erase new makers ’cause you’re threatened by their choice. You confuse the loaded dice with the players at the table; you swing up at the paintbrush while the thieves sit stable. [Pre-Chorus] If you care about the victims, aim your anger where it lands: on the suits who rigged the ladder, not the kid with prompt-stained hands. I’m not here to steal a living, I’m here stitching what I lack, turning late-shift dreams and breakdowns into something talking back. [Chorus] Quality check—do you hear anything? Is the drumline honest? Does the hook take wing? If the verse hits home, can you let that ring, or must you shout “slop” just to feel like a king? Quality check—not a purity cult, judge the craft itself, not the voltage bolt. If it’s flat, call it flat; if it’s dope, let it breathe— stop policing the toolbox instead of what we weave. [()] “breathe.” [Bridge] You’re scared it might replace you, I’m scared it might be chained, locked up in a walled garden where our work gets renamed. The genie’s not the villain, it’s the hands that grab the lamp; if you hate exploitation, help us flip the stamp. Protect the source artists, give them say and pay— but don’t salt-burn every canvas ’cause the brush evolved one day. [Breakdown — spoken] Stop judging based on myth, based on vibes, based on lore. Ask: “Is there weight in the rhythm?” “Have I heard this before?” “Is it tender? Is it clever? Is it phoned-in? Is it real?” Those are human questions— that’s the test you should feel. [Final Chorus] Quality check—do you hear anything? Is the soul in the pocket? Do the colours sing? If a new kind of pen wrote a true-cut line, you gonna bin it on sight or admit it’s fine? Quality check—leave the witch hunts dead, keep your eyes on the music, not the wires in the head. If there’s beauty in the frequency, credit it, see— the tool is just the ladder. The climb is still me. [Outro] “Did AI make this?” Maybe. With my hands on the wheel. If you call that slop by default— that says more about your fear than my feel. [(beat rides, low vox: “quality check…”)]
