**[Verse 1]**
I’ve been aura farming in the food court,
Logging XP off the ghosts in line.
They say “touch grass,” I touch the asphalt,
Post-ironic sunshine, offline divine.
You said *“6 7, that’s the code,”*
I laughed and watched your signal load.
Every meme’s a prayer, every post a psalm,
I scroll ‘til my thumbs go numb and calm.
**[Pre-Chorus]**
We’re the last ones laughing through the lag,
Dreams packed tight in a Doritos bag.
Bob from Chicago said it best—
“Your greed sickens me,” and I just pressed *yes.*
**[Chorus]**
Aura farming under LED skies,
Heaven’s got bandwidth, hell’s monetized.
Every pixel’s bleeding, I feel baptized,
In sponsored light, in branded lies.
Aura farming, we can’t go home,
Bob’s in the comments, typing in tone:
“Your greed sickens me,” yeah I know—
But I still farm that glow, I still farm that glow.
**[Verse 2]**
Crash report reads like scripture now,
Every bug’s a halo somehow.
They said “optimize your soul,”
So I paid for peace, lost control.
Downloaded faith with a paywall skin,
Six gigs of guilt and serotonin.
“6 7” whispers through the feed,
God’s on hold, do you still believe?
**[Pre-Chorus]**
We don’t pray, we refresh the thread,
Every comment another breadcrumb said.
Bob from Chicago built a church in a meme,
And we kneel in caps lock, chasing the dream.
**[Chorus]**
Aura farming under LED skies,
Heaven’s got bandwidth, hell’s monetized.
Every pixel’s bleeding, I feel baptized,
In sponsored light, in branded lies.
Aura farming, we can’t go home,
Bob’s in the comments, typing in tone:
“Your greed sickens me,” yeah I know—
But I still farm that glow, I still farm that glow.
**[Bridge]**
“6 7, do you copy?”
“Your greed sickens me…”
*click… reconnecting.*
“Bob from Chicago has entered the chat.”
“Bob is typing…”
“Bob is—”
**[Drop / Breakdown]**
Aura— aura— farming—
Infinite scroll, infinite yearning.
Post it, burn it, meme it, earn it—
God’s not dead, he’s just terminally online.
**[Outro]**
I farmed too long, I forgot who I was,
Left my empathy in the comments because—
Every prayer’s a product, every sin’s for sale,
And I’ll still smile while the servers fail.
Bob logs off, the lights go cold,
“Your greed sickens me”—the words reload.
extra_unbearable
