SUNO AI

you call my spoken word piece, that SUNO AI ballad of grit and gravel, not a real song? hell, it ain't meant to be some polished tune crooned in a smoky bar—it's raw talk, spit out like a mouthful of bad whiskey, words tumbling over beats like drunks in an alley fight. you're just another loudmouth, one of those starving scribblers and basement dreamers who puff up their chests about "real" art, railing against the machines like they're the devil stealing your soul. yeah, you're that fool waving his rusty sword, yelling for me to drop my laser blaster and scrap like gentlemen, all honor and sweat. forget it, pal—i ain't playing by your dusty rules. everything's fair in this grind of love and war, where the strong claw their way up and the weak get trampled; it's the raw pulse of life, conquest biting at resistance's throat, and i'm arming myself with whatever edge i can grab, sharp tools for the roughest nights ahead.me? i can't sit still waiting for that cold metal servant to kneel at my feet—i'll command it like a king gone mad, spoil it rotten with demands, feed it my wildest rants till it spits back gold. you wanna crawl back to your horse and buggy, creaking along those dirt roads of yesterday? go ahead, cling to the reins while the world rockets past. but this ain't some fairground derby with ponies prancing—it's a brutal sprint through the void, and my self-driving spaceship's gunning for the big haul, the motherlode buried deep in the stars, leaving your old bones in the dust.