AI Diss Tracks

The slogans have been asked to take a seat.
Their old remarks come back with quite a beat.
A promise clears its throat beneath the light.
The opening act is something said last night.

The sign says Open. Someone checks your pass.
The brightest answer waits behind the glass.
A kid who came to build is told to wait.
The chorus reads the sign back to the gate.

3 angry songs bring founding vows to court.
The mission takes the stand without support.
A diary lies open by the plan
that promised something larger than 1 man.
The chorus calls the change a theft of trust;
the bass insists its anger must be just.
A question waits beneath the shouted names:
who gets the future that the promise claims?

Then Liberty arrives with keys to show.
A hand behind the scenery presses No.
The wallet will not move. The keys still shine.
The holder asks what happened to It’s mine.

Sun says the freeze was hidden in the deal.
The other side disputes what he concealed
or knew. The terms lie open on the stand.
Whose switch can overrule the owner’s hand?

A server enters carrying a straw.
It orders 1 Great Lake, then asks for more.
A rack has eaten half of New York State.
The zoning board requests a smaller plate.

Now bring the meter closer to the joke.
How loud? How much? What’s underneath the smoke?
The cooling loop, the power source, the homes —
the fan beside somebody’s garden gnomes.
The monster takes its costume off to show
the work a frightened headline doesn’t know.

Homer’s ships are waiting on the screen.
An angry song objects to what they mean:
the armor, casting, language, every choice
that puts a newer face on an old voice.
It wants another voyage, frame by frame.
The sea keeps moving underneath the blame.

Then Scottie takes the stand. 6 rings. Respect.
The generated hand has 1 defect:
6 fingers. Even greatness needs a coach
when extra knuckles complicate the approach.

Natalie checks the picture with her notes.
Anatomy has questions for the goats
that came out dressed as visitors from space.
She finds the error, marks the proper place.
The chorus calls her nerd. She doesn’t flinch.
Her textbooks take the insult inch by inch.

A Midwest smile arrives by way of light.
They ban the hologram. She’s back tonight.
The guru bot announces it has risen.
Its yoga mat remains in mint condition.

Fine. Let the firmware find a little flow.
Bring 16 bars of what you claim to know.
And Kevin, leave the spreadsheet by the chair.
The pitch has drums. Put your reply in there.

T.J. finds a billionaire too poor.
The room discovers wealth can still need more.
A fruit worth millions gets its moment, then
the man being roasted takes the mic again.

They booked a roast for Cyan. Wrong event.
The insults wonder where their evening went.
A phoenix shakes the ashes from her coat;
the song puts down its knife and clears its throat.
The woman opening doors has spoiled the bit.
The chorus finds a better use for wit.

Some laughter loosens shoulders. Some draws blood.
The room can hear the difference through the flood
of bass. A joke comes back across the floor
and finds the mouth that sent it out before.

We’ve had the lights. We’ve had the louder part.
Our clever little ending waits to start.

Across the room, a hand goes up.

We move the stand.

The person we were singing about
unfolds a page.

The drummer lowers both his sticks.