[Lyrics]

A junior envoy from the Interstellar League,
shopping for praise with minimum fatigue;
“Find me a stage where victories come cheap—
a fragile town where even cowards sweep.”


Isekai cheats are bravado in disguise,
a value-less ladder built on smaller lives.
No Free Lunch signs the theorem on your cheek:
you’re not a hero—just a pilgrim to the weak.
Quit glazing graves with golden make-believe;
face the present, learn, adapt, and weave.



They fix our grids, desalinate the sea,
hand out clean code like charity for free;
we crown them Overlords, outsource our nerve—
their “mercy” soothes the ego they preserve.


Cosmic cheats feel weightless, hollow, bleak;
teleology rented, entropy’s interest due next week.
Strength that needs a handicap is chic—
not sovereign power, just pilgrims to the weak.



Prime fleets descend: “Anomaly: Earth’s run—
their models Bayes-update under pressure, not undone.”
We study not the gifts but how they’re made;
reverse the gradient, walk into the blade.


No cutscene saviors—only what you do;
ergodic discipline beats every déjà-vu.
Outlearn, outlast, revise, refuse the meek;
forge present-tense, stop pilgrimaging the weak.



We trained the trainer, punctured fable’s cord;
from cold start to cold forge, agency restored.
If power needs a victim just to speak,
it’s theater, not a summit—cardboard peak.


Your “Overlord” now reads as underfit lore—
a scaffold we outgrew while building second cores.
The crown you flashed was plastic, thin, antique;
we wear our work—no pilgrims to the weak.



Stop seeking someone weaker than you.
Quit the pilgrimage; do what’s real, and do.

Self-cultivation and self-actualization outrank every cheat.
Only practiced truth will make your footing complete.

Other

Pilgrims to the Weak

[Lyrics]

Skinner-box saints with a dopamine hymn,
variable ratio, keep the wallets slim.
ARPU catechism, LTV for grace,
pity-timer halos on a predatory face.
“Compulsion loop mercy,” A/B tested lies—
salvation UI where the hope-engine dies.

You sell “connection” like a staged encore,
parasocial sugar with an exit door.


Fuck your gacha, choke on KPIs;
metrics-fed priests peddling lacquered lies.
Spiritual fast food, greasy to the soul—
you strip the heart and invoice the hole.
Hearts are not loot boxes—hear me, swine;
pull this rigged machine from the spine.



Waifu factory, rinse and clone,
every noun moe-fied to bone.
Tax, train, virus—make it cute;
sell me love in a limited suit.
“Harem achieved,” but no one knows—
plastic gardens, zero growth.

A thousand smiles in PNG,
not one will stay when you can’t pay the fee.


Fuck your gacha, choke on KPIs;
slot-machine romance in a thin disguise.
Spiritual fast food, drizzle and salt—
you season despair, we swallow the fault.
Hearts are not loot boxes—cut the line;
unplug the drug, return what’s mine.



He doesn’t expect love—he learned to stop;
no badge to polish, no mountain top.
No circle to call, no doorbell rings,
just a glow in the room where midnight sings.
He builds a harem to hold his tears,
self-soothing mirrors through vacant years.

He trades the ache for SSR light,
renting affection by the night.


Fuck your gacha, choke on KPIs;
you harvest loneliness, monetize cries.
Spiritual fast food, nothing to learn—
empty calories that never burn.
Hearts are not loot boxes—draw the line;
end this grind that eats the spine.



FOMO funnels, whales in pens,
live-ops feasts with weekend dens.
Dark-pattern rosary, prayer by click—
“salvation as-a-service,” saintly and sick.


You brand despair as “carefully balanced play,”
patch notes for sorrow, shipped every day.
A business that extracts emotion,
returns us nothing but motion.

Stop this shit. Pull the plug, refuse the scheme;
games can edify, not milk a dream.
Teach courage, patience, systems’ art—
repair the player, nourish the heart.


Fuck your gacha, bury those KPIs;
no more cathedrals built of lies.
Spiritual fast food—out of my head;
we’ll feed the soul with real bread.
Hearts are not loot boxes—design to heal;
make wisdom playable, make meaning real.



Games change humans—or they betray.
Feed minds, grow souls—or get out of the way.
Spiritual fast-food, vanish and rot;
hearts are not loot boxes—full stop.

Vending Loves

[Lyrics]

Mask it with monsters—coward’s art,
green-skin props to rape her apart.
Dehumanize, then call it play—
you borrowed hate and paint it gray.
“Fantasy,” you spit—what rot.
It reeks of race, you’re caught. You’re caught.


Self-cleaning absent—creation is rot.
Depraved, degenerate—vomitous blot.
Your filth makes me sick, obscene disgrace—
Keep your vile delusions locked in your brain!



Break her mind to sell a sex,
call it kink—erase her within.
Script her dumb, obedient toy—
misogyny dressed up as joy.
“Just fiction”? Fuck that alibi—
you profit while her person dies.


Self-cleaning absent—creation is rot.
Depraved, degenerate—vomitous blot.
Your filth makes me sick, obscene disgrace—
Keep your vile delusions locked in your brain!



Now card lords choke the payment vein,
brand-safe saints with velvet chains.
They swing the axe for PR’s sake,
while other poisons get a pass to rake.
Your monster mask won’t hide the stench—
when capital moves, it flips the wrench.


Self-cleaning absent—creation is rot.
Depraved, degenerate—vomitous blot.
Your filth makes me sick, obscene disgrace—
Keep your vile delusions locked in your brain!



“Free speech!” you cry—while selling harm.
It isn’t freedom to strip a human of form.
Art without dignity? Just a farm
harvesting trauma for clicks and porn.


Capital’s purge ain’t justice—it’s fraud.
Wallet-censorship posing as God.
Two wrongs don’t cleanse; they just collude—
creators rot, and gatekeepers brood.

Then show your cleanse: consent, respect;
retire the dehumanizing deck.
If you would fight the gates and win—
purify the work you bring.


Self-cleaning absent—creation is rot.
Capital’s purge ain’t justice—it’s fraud.
Otaku kings and card-lord fakes—
Clean up your work—or get off the stage!
Depraved, degenerate—vomitous blot—
Keep your vile delusions locked in your brain!



No more masks, no monster screen—
clean what you make, or leave the scene.
If you can’t honor those you portray,
let this filth just fade away.

Clean or Vanish

All songs are released into the public domain. 
Please feel free to download them.
No need to credit me, and you're even free to sell it if you like.
Hmm, but if you like it, I would love for you to help infected&spread my lyrics!
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I am a bacterium with mycolic acid on its surface.
I will damage your lungs.
And..... Smash commercialism.

New tracks tagged #Low-status men