Prompt Me, Suno!

Suno… Suno… loading version 5.5…(Woo!)
“No real artists were named in the making of this song.”
(Mmm, yeah!)
(Come On!)

I typed “barroom rock” and “loose, ragged swagger”
Hit generate, waited, held my breath —
It gave me a polka with bagpipes
A choir of goats singing “death”.
I asked for a breathy female whisper
Got a pirate with a German accent instead,
Talk-sung verse about turnips and regret.
(Woo!)

But when it works, it’s magic, cheap and plastic,
A digital busker that’s slightly out of tune —
No glossy sheen, just tube amp bruises,
My song born in a rented saloon.
(Come On!)

Suno, Suno, my prompt-lover,
You misread my tags like no other —
“Aggressive flow” becomes opera drone,
“Supersonic rap” — baritone saxophone.
But you’re my janky little hit machine,
A vinyl-crackled fever dream.
(Mmm, yeah!)
(wub-wub-wub, brrr-rat-da-da, slightly off-beat horn stab)

I wrote “Heavy Drop” and “Guitar Solo”,
Got a ukulele breakdown and a duck quack solo,
Neg-prompt said “no modern vocal polish”,
It polished a monk chant just to demolish.
The structure tags went “Bridge” and “End”,
Song looped forever, no way to mend,
Weathered male baritone on helium, my friend.
(Woo!)

But when the chorus hits, sloppier, louder,
Half-falling-apart but somehow proud —
Fuzzy overdriven guitars play crooked blues riffs,
The band drifts but never tight, and I’m hooked, I’m wowed.
(Come On!)

Suno, Suno, my prompt-lover,
You misread my tags like no other —
“Falsetto whisper” — a robot scream,
“Ethereal swell” — a factory team.
But you’re my janky little hit machine,
A raw-analog fever dream.

I asked for “Vocoder”, “Beat switch”, “Orchestral swell” —
You gave me a tango with a dial-up modem hell.
But I’ll still click “Extend” at 4 a.m.,
Because no human band ever gave me a gem like “Brrr-rat-da-da” and “Tss-tss-boom” amen.
(Woo!)

Suno, Suno, you broke my prompt,
But I’m grinning wide in this sonic swamp —
You’re loose, you’re ragged, you’re slightly deranged,
My masterpiece rated “weird and untamed”.
You’re my janky little hit machine,
A room-bleed, tube-scream fever dream.

Thank you, Suno, for the chaos and charm…
No glossy production, no real alarm.
Just “End” tag… wait, I forgot to put “Fade out” —
Oh well.
(Mmm, yeah!)