Black-screen prophet with a plastic imagination, Selling secondhand dreams to a restless generation. I’ve got one question burning underneath the noise: Why can’t we make our own music, our own choice? There you go again, giving everything your best, Trying to sound like everything you’ve heard with the rest. While the AI polishes the edges of your soul, Yesterday it sold us dinner — now it sells control. We’re growing up, We’re growing up, Under artificial light. We’re growing up, We’re growing up, Learning wrong from right. I’ve got political convictions I’d like to declare, But they vanish when the sponsors decide they don’t care. I’ve got a spiritual answer, something honest and true, But it has to fit the interests of somebody paying you. You can hear it in the streets, you can hear it in the trains, In the waiting-room silence and the advertising frames. It whispers from the walls, it follows everywhere, Soon they’ll package every thought and sell it by the share. What choices do we make? And what becomes too late? We’re growing up, We’re growing up, While the signal fills the room. We’re growing up, We’re growing up, To a manufactured tune. Black-screen prophet, speaking softly through the static, Turning human contradiction into something automatic. Every voice becomes a product, every dream becomes a brand, And freedom gets reduced to what the market can command. We’re growing up, We’re growing up, With the signal in our veins. We’re growing up, We’re growing up, Calling repetition change. We’re growing up… We’re growing up… Still trying to hear our own voice. We’re growing up… We’re growing up… Still trying to make a choice.
