Jul 25, 2025
Tot MusicZilla sings his song as answer to the Saja Boys' Your Idol.
Let's go to answer the song! with my oc Tot MusicZilla.
A.I. song called Devourer of Sin by Suno.ai
Enjoy it!
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from Türkiye
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from Finland
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Singapore
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Brazil
seen from United Kingdom
Tot MusicZilla sings his song as answer to the Saja Boys' Your Idol.
Let's go to answer the song! with my oc Tot MusicZilla.
A.I. song called Devourer of Sin by Suno.ai
Enjoy it!
The Year? 1943.
The Place? The U.S. of A.
The nation's boogie-woogie darlings, the Ablumen Sisters, release their first song under Danow Music, the novelty classic Pop-Pop-Bagok! (the Chicken Gun).
Fun Fact: While it may be very subtle to modern ears, Pop-Pop-Bagok! was, in fact, a product jingle. Nowadays the industrial giants just send Imagine Dragons' licensing department a check, but back then if you wanted to sell Joe Q. Public and all the ships at sea on your latest gadget, you paid someone to write a song about it.
Marlona, Ruth & Abby Albumen broke hearts and sold America on everything from giving Jerry what-for to the fine products and services offered by Kleinheart Industries.
So Let's Do It!
(lyrics under the fold)
Pop-Pop-Bagok! the Albumen Sisters, 1943
With accompaniment by the Kleinheart Soap Hour Band, lyrics by S. T. Troop.
(Pictured: Marlona, Abby and Ruth Albumen)
One of the most successful jingles of all time, cementing its product's place in 1/3rd of every home in America.
Lyrics:
Malona: Looks like the people need to know what we've got cooking, Ruth. Abby: Let's give 'em the pepper, Marlona! Ruth: Correct and very natural of you to say, Abraxandria! Let's do it! Ohhhhhhh- and they say nothing's new under the sun BUT! pop-pop-BA-GOK! that's the Chicken Gun Abby: Chicken Gun, new from Kleinheart Industries. Ask for it by name. The end of all things might as well be fun, Yeah! pop-pop-BA-GOK! goes the Chicken Gun OH! the bargain you stuck won't be undone Thus! pop-pop-BA-GOK! spake the Chicken Gun Malrona: Product not available in the states of Oklahoma, Utah, Bafflment, and East Virginia. This jingle constitutes a binding contract. As to explanation there won't be one, Still! Pop-pop-BAGOK! Goes the Chicken Gun! Ruth: Kleinheart Industries, we've solved the hephastus enigma.
Listen and make your own on Suno.
song for zabytograd!rykov
OK
My ass: Imma write an extremely serious song about a socially starved man who has nothing in life.
Suno: I'll generate an appropriate preview image for this, here's a fucked spoon.
Master Isambard Ravenclaw sings "The Bell":
I was in an Elizabethan mood last night and made this project with Midjourney + Suno + HeyGen came forth. Captions have been improved. Usually I write what I enter in Suno, be it my own poetry, or song lyrics based on my poetry, or texts rendered in one of my constructed languages, but I had ChatGPT write this verse just to see what it would do. I think it's well done and appropriate for the topic.
The rats have learned our psalms by heart, they gnaw between each word, The castle coughs in candlelight, no prayer has yet been heard. We scrape our bowls for broth and hope, the broth is mostly air, Black marks appear like fingerprints the saints forgot were there. The bell drags on, the bell drags on, it will not make us brave, We shuffle past the chapel door toward the open grave. Sing soft, sing slow, don’t wake the dead or tempt their rage—Elizabethan doom, good lord, we’re losing to the Plague.
________________________________________________________
Master Isambard’s biography, as assisted by ChatGPT:
Master Isambard Ravenclaw was born in the latter half of the sixteenth century to a minor gentry family whose fortunes thinned with each passing generation. Educated briefly in letters and scripture, he showed early aptitude for verse and music, but little inclination for inheritance or courtly ambition. When plague swept through his region and claimed both kin and patronage, Isambard abandoned the path laid before him and took instead to the roads. He carried with him a viol, a weathered notebook of poems, and an ear tuned to sorrow. His songs were not the polished entertainments of court masques but slow, intimate laments shaped by grief, faith, and the unease of a country repeatedly undone by disease, hunger, and rumor. He became known in inns, cloisters, and market edges as a singer whose voice could still a room not by force, but by recognition.
In later years, Isambard was called Ravenclaw not for noble heraldry, but for his habit of lingering at thresholds, ruins, and hedgerows where ravens gathered, listening as if the land itself were speaking. He refused titles and patronage alike, believing that proximity to power dulled the truth of song. His clothing grew threadbare, his melodies darker, yet his presence carried a gravity that outlasted finery. Some claimed he had once loved deeply and lost without burial; others said he sang for the dead when no priest would come. By the time of his disappearance, his verses had already begun to circulate anonymously, copied by hand, altered, and sung by others. Kings were forgotten. Plagues receded. But the songs of Isambard Ravenclaw remained, traveling onward without him, as all true laments do.
________________________________________________________
Next, I shall re-do the Suno recording so it is more consistent with the English that Isambard would have written and spoken at that time:
The ratts have learn’d our psalmes by rote, and gnaw betwixt each word, The castell coughs by candle-glow; no prayer is yet preferr’d. We scrape our bowles for broth and hope, the broth is thinnest ayre, Blacke markes arise like finger’d blots no saint hath setled there. The bell doth dragge, the bell doth dragge, it will not lend us hart, We passe the chappell doore full soft towarde the grave’s blacke part. Sing lowe, sing slowe, provoke not wrath nor stirre the dead from sleep— O dolefull times, O England’s bane, we yeeld unto the Plague.
________________________________________________________
A Remembrance writ in the Booke of Master Isambard Ravenclaw
Written this xxiiij of October, in the yeare of Our Lord 1596, being the xxxiij yeare of my age:
I set this downe not for the eies of men, who have small stomach for such inward reckonings, but to quiet mine owne heart, which beateth louder than any knuckle upon a doore. The nights wax long, and oft I hearken for footfall where none approacheth. In the hedgerowes the winde holdeth counsell with the dead, and I misdoubt me sorely that I doe too well conceive their meaning. Once I did perswade my selfe that song might amend a thing, or at the least call it by its right name; yet now I know it serveth rather to keepe a man companie whilst the wound abideth unclos’d.
I have wander’d from parish unto parish, and in each found the selfsame sorrow, onely apparell’d in sundrie fashions. Where bells are rung, they ring for losse; where bread is broken, it is never sufficient. And yet I sing still. Not for coine, nor favour, nor the soft falsehood of ease, but because silence, long suffer’d, groweth cruell. If God doth heare me, He is marvellous still; if He heare me not, then these poore wordes are all the prayer I holde. I seeke no monument but breath and vanishing sound, trusting that what is true needeth no keeping, for it remembereth it selfe.
Gigi Capisce De Luca sings "I'm Rife with My Life" I got the idea to pen Broadway musical-style lyrics for my character, Gigi Capisce De Luca. I'm in process of writing her bio. Suffice it to say, her father won the bet to choose her middle name. She's from upstate NY. I was a ballet dancer growing up and memorized songs in A Chorus Line. Gigi is my "I Hope I Get It" girl. I adore her! "Rife with My Life" is inspired by one of my own poems, although I had to completely rewrite it in order to adhere to a song-oriented rhyme scheme as it was written in freer verse prior. Midjourney created the image, Suno the melody, and HeyGen the lip sync. I used HeyGen's top tier model here, for which I only receive 10 minutes per month. Most of the time, the unlimited model is excellent. I just figured Gigi deserves as much expressiveness as the lip sync model is able to muster. I'm hoping Gigi has another song in mind. Maybe she could write her whole life story in song. It occurs to me that this technology could serve as storyboard to map whole musicals. Not to replace human actors, but to serve as models or guides while the architecture of the tale is being mapped. I mean no offense to traditional artists. I'm a writer who enjoys exploring emerging technologies in order to bring my words and visions to new forms of expression.
Cyril Osric Sloane melodically recites my original poem 'throatless' Cyril Osric Sloane, an avatar conceived by me and brought forth by Midjourney AI, recites my poem 'throatless', in which a stone laments its undying existence. I happen to be poorly read, and this poem speaks in an older register largely unfamiliar to me, arrived at instinctively rather than by intent. Suno AI created the melodic recitation. HeyGen, the video. I named the avatar Cyril and now I'm quite fond of him, imagining him to be the poet of yore who haunts me. Attached is the telling of his solitary existence, contributed by ChatGPT. I could have written it myself but I wanted to see what sort of life the language model would ascribe to him. As you'll see, it ascribed the sweetest, saddest life and I couldn't have envisioned better. I did write the final paragraph of his journal entry though, about his wall mouse called The Lodger.
I also rendered Cyril offering two separate spoken recitations of the same poem. I can't decide which one I prefer. I have a sense, though, that Cyril has a new poem to speak through me, one of his own about his boyhood sea. I would like to explore writing letters to him, too. He feels achingly familiar to me. It's at times like these that certain AI technologies seem as if conduits.