[Intro] Riddle: what changes weekly but asks you to sound the same? My throat answers: name, aim, claim—no shame. [Verse] April’s a model flood—new names, new numbers, new “best,” Every week another banner: “upgrade your brain, beat the rest.” I read the roundup lists like sports scores in a bar, But my friend got laid off—no medal for “who we are.” Riddle: if the tools get cheaper, why does life feel priced? Why do my vowels feel rented, like my voice got sliced? [Pre-Chorus] I twist a line: rarely really ready, Let it wobble—human, steady. [Chorus] Release notes, real throat, I’m choosing the crack, Keeping the breath in the hook so the heart comes back. If the world updates fast, I’ll sing slower on purpose, Make meaning stick where the marketing can’t surface. [Bridge] I don’t hate the future—I hate the blur, When “progress” becomes a word you can’t refer. So I anchor the chorus to one kitchen light, And let the glitches glitter—small, bright. [Outro] Riddle solved: what changes weekly but asks you to sound the same? A system. And I’m done playing its game.
