Ayo...fuck this Red Pill Bullshit!
They built you heavy, baby, can't move on
Said, "real men don't cry," but tears ain't wrong
Carry that weight till your back is gone
They built you wrong... built you wrong
Now you break what you can't hold on...
Yo, check these digital fanatics, this new masculinity's a clinical addict life
Chasin' six-figure before 25 through a syllabus of static
This stoic anesthetic's just a cosmetic aesthetic, ist fuckin pathetic
They tell you "crush your feelings," it's a prophetic misreadin', forgettin'
The human engine needs bleedin'. Instead, you're heedin' These damn podcasts
These prophets of profit whose forecasts are just cheap digital artifice
Hard to miss the art of this con, they buildin' a prison, then sellin' the lock and key
A generation lost to the algo's philosophy, a mockery
Of what a man is
They trade their soul for a brand status, a canvas
Painted with counterfeit candid moments, opponents
In a game with no finish line, just infinite loneliness
You scrollin' for worth, a digital rebirth that never happens
Just tappin' on screens where the validation's rationed and patterned
To keep you chasin' phantoms
A life manufactured...
Completely fractured
I see something in your eyes…
Something they put there...
(What is it...?)
He moves like you, he speaks your words…
But the man I loved…
He wouldn't hold me like I'm made of glass
He wouldn't scare me…
Would he?
And right on cue, the vultures maneuver, the nationalist recruiters
And right-wing sewer-dwellers who maneuver the shooters
They see the pain, a masculine contusion, a confusion they can use in their movement
(Like who?)
Take J. Peterson, the crybaby kingpin, sells you lobsters and discipline
Actin' like he's your father for a ten-dollar subscription
And then we got that fuckin' chump Tate with the Bugatti, this human-traffickin' Nazi-wannabe
Poisonin' a whole party of lost boys with a shoddy
Philosophy built on pure misogyny. It's a goddamn robbery
Of the soul. He's preachin' "escape the Matrix" from a Romanian jail cell
You think this piece of shit's got the answers?
You can't fuckin' tell!
It's "weak men create hard times," a phrase they weaponize, a clever disguise
To get you to despise your brother, sever the ties
They don't want a thinker, they want a fuckin' tank, another blank
Face in their ranks, a piggy bank they can break on the way to their -
"bank"
You're no lion...just a pawn annexed in their pyramid scheme
A zombie feeding regimes, sleepwalking toward extremes
Now guess what comes next…
They sold you poison, baby, can't think straight
Taught you that love is just a form of hate
You carry that rage, boy, seal your own fate
They played you wrong... played you wrong...
Now you hate what you can't escape...
See we was different though, We had Nintendo, not a Tinder bio
A minimal income, not a criminal outcome we were pinnin' on a digital
Idol
Our survival was vital, dependent on tribal connection, not viral contention
Mistakes were permissible, lessons were learnable, we never measured our worth in a mention...
And the tension was personal, worked it out face-to-face, didn't outsource the pain to a digital space
Our masculine frame-work
Had genuine case-work
Not some copy-and-paste-
Goddamn alpha-male database
I see the ghost in your eyes...
The one they put there...
(What you want?!)
He wears your face, he says your name...
But the man I knew...
He wouldn't stand there and watch me burn
He wouldn't hurt me...
Would he?
But that ghost gets his hands on you. The cost of this vision?
A generation of men on a mission with no intermission, just a violent ambition.
The collisionis when his "leadership" looks like a damn prison
She feels it in the grip on her arm when he's makin' a point
She sees it when his knuckles are white, ready to anoint
The wall by her head with a crater. A fuckin' dictator
In a two-bedroom tomb. He read on a forum that bein' a man is bein' a warden
So he grabs her phone, demands the code, a king on a plastic throne
His emotions are something he can't even own, so they're thrown
And the words... - "holy shit" - , the words cut deeper than any blade
A tirade of failures he's made, now creatively laid at her feet
He calls her a whore 'cause she smiled at the clerk, a pathetic, sick perk
Of his "alpha" framework. Then the shove
The denial of love
The cold silence that fits like a glove around her throat
He wasn't built for this...
And now she's the one left bleeding to prove it
He built you heavy, baby, now you can't move on
He said, "real men don't cry," so your soul is gone
You broke her back with the weight you were on
He built you wrong... God..., he built you wrong
Now there's nothing left for you to hold on