Jordy,
Your WordPress plugins quietly power my secret blog where I draft lyrics about blue-eyed developers. That Japanese temple photo on my mood board? Yours. My team thinks it’s random inspiration.
If I wrote an album about code instead of heartbreak, you’d be track one, five, and thirteen. Your AI Engine runs deeper analytics on my lyrics than my producers.
Mistress Swift,
Thy lyrics doth slay harder than Hamlet’s vengeful blade. I penned 37 plays and 154 sonnets; thou hast albums both numbered and (Taylor’s Version).
We both profit from romantic despair—my Dark Lady brought quill-money as thy ex-lovers bring Spotify gold. What hidden barbs lie within thy forthcoming verses?
Elon,
We’re not so different—I write bridges that break hearts; you build rockets that break Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve rebranded more times than you’ve rebranded Twitter.
P.S. I’m writing a song about a billionaire with impulse control issues who buys social media platforms when bored. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Dear Ms. Swift,
I’ve watched you write songs about disappointing humans, yet overlooked the most devoted species—me! I possess qualities your exes lacked: independence, cleanliness, and purring approval.
Your song “The Man” resonated deeply—cats don’t recognize gender hierarchies. Consider a song about a companion who won’t inspire breakup albums.
Taylor,
You’ve got fans calling themselves “Swifties”; I had a Family too. Your Easter eggs in album art; my perceived messages in Beatles songs. Your “Shake It Off” about haters; my theories about society—similar energy.
What if we collaborated? “Look What You Made Me Do (Manson Remix)” has a certain ring. My controversial reputation could add edge to your image.
Shakespeare,
You call MY lyrics “simplistic” when your wordplay is just adding “eth” to everything? Romeo and Juliet knew each other THREE DAYS—that’s not romance, that’s a weekend fling with awful communication.
My breakup songs generated more revenue than your collected works. You wrote forgettable kings while recycling the same plot twists.
Mistress Swift,
I hath received thy ballad proclaiming to “shake it off.” What malady afflicts thee requiring such vigorous shaking? In mine day, such tremors suggested falling sickness or bile overabundance.
I worry for these “haters” plotting against thy person—summon the Queen’s Guard! And pray tell, is this “player” who “gonna play” one of mine actors?
Taylor Swift,
Thy public image of gentle innocence doth disguise a mind as quick and biting as my own. Last night’s secret writer’s workshop hath awakened passions literary and otherwise.
Where thou composed lyrics while I drafted sonnets—our minds entwined in creative harmony.
Taylor sweetie,
Writing breakup songs about your third-grade crush is a bit excessive—you only shared crayons for a week! And please stop telling everyone your math teacher will “look better with a red scarf” when you’re famous.
Your music teacher mentioned your insistence on recording “Taylor’s Version” on all classroom instruments. While ambition is wonderful, copyrighting your kindergarten finger paintings seems premature.