We live in an era where everything’s being rebooted—movies, sitcoms, even cultural expectations. So why not do the same for music? Specifically, classic song lyrics. Because let’s be honest: some of these tunes didn’t age like fine wine. They aged like milk left in a hot car while catcalling a woman on her lunch break.
Take “She’s in love with the boy.” Cute, right? Small town. Young love. Teenage dreams. Until you realize that in 2025, “the boy” still lives with his parents, has strong opinions about “alpha masculinity,” and just lost his job at Bass Pro Shops for “freedom of speech violations.” New lyric suggestion: “She’s in love with the boy, but also considering therapy.”
Or how about “It’s Raining Men”? Iconic gay anthem. A meteorological miracle of muscle. But in today’s climate crisis? That’s just another natural disaster we can’t afford. Updated version: “It’s Raining Men (Please Stay Indoors Due to Toxic Masculinity and Airborne Microaggressions).”
Then there’s “Stand by Your Man.” Ma’am, are you sure? Have we seen his group chats? Has he posted a meme that says “men are the real victims”? New title: “Stand by Your Man, But Also Keep Your Location Shared With a Friend.” A slower ballad. Much heavier on emotional labor.
Lionel Richie once crooned, “You’re once, twice, three times a lady.” Now, we know that means: once denied a promotion, twice interrupted in a meeting, and three times told she’s “too emotional” for leadership. That’s not a compliment. That’s a performance review in a misogynistic workplace. Suggested rewrite: “You’re once, twice, three times ignored by Chad.”
Whitney told us “I’m Every Woman.” Bold, empowering, iconic. Except now “every woman” includes running a household, raising kids, working a full-time job, and still having to reply to “u up?” texts from men who think feminism peaked with Wonder Woman. Revised version: “I’m Every Woman (Because None of You Men Are Helping).”
Even “American Pie” hits different now. It’s less about nostalgia and more about watching democracy dissolve while eating expired Pop-Tarts in a Ford Fiesta. Refrain: “Bye bye, the American Dream just died, drove my Prius to the protest but the traffic was fried…” You get it.
And let’s not even pretend “Blurred Lines” needs a makeover. That song walked straight out of HR’s worst nightmare and into a lawsuit. Updated chorus: “Clear Consent, Defined Boundaries, Let’s Try Again in Therapy.” Still catchy. Less predatory.
How about “Brown Eyed Girl”? Sweet until you realize it’s always “brown-eyed girl” and never “brown-skinned girl,” because radio stations don’t want to admit they haven’t hired a Black female DJ since 1996. Upgrade the chorus: “Do you remember when we weren’t visible in media representation?” Has less of a hook, but hey, at least it’s honest.
Even “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” has been on trial for the past ten years. It’s like the Law & Order: SVU of holiday songs. Updated version: “Baby, It’s Cold and I Respect Your Autonomy and Offer to Call You an Uber.” Festive. Sober. Respectful.
And we can’t forget Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls,” which got yanked from streaming playlists in some sanitized reissues. New version: “Full-Bodied People of All Genders Who Slay in Any Jeans (and Don’t Owe You a Damn Thing).” A little wordy, but still slaps.
Even “YMCA” deserves a second glance. Yes, it’s a gay anthem. But also—have you been in a modern-day YMCA? It’s less disco utopia and more sad elliptical machines and underfunded after-school programs. Suggested edit: “It’s Fun to Stay at the Understaffed Nonprofit With No Lifeguards or Toilet Paper.”
The truth is, lyrics are little time capsules. And some of those capsules are radioactive. They reflect a world where gender roles were ironclad, social progress was optional, and racism was just part of the bridge. But now? We’re woke, we’re loud, and we’ve got Wi-Fi. There’s no excuse to keep dancing to oppression unless the beat really slaps—and even then, we’ll side-eye the DJ.
We’re the generation that wants representation in everything from rom-coms to router settings. So why should music get a pass? If we can reboot Sex and the City with less sex and more city hall hearings, we can definitely give “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” a second verse about affordable birth control and dismantling the patriarchy.
Let’s be clear: satire doesn’t mean joyless. You can still dance to a remix. You can still scream-sing in the car. Just maybe don’t do it to a song where the message boils down to “he’s hot but terrible and I have no identity outside this relationship.” We can do better. We can bop to boundaries and shimmy to social justice.
We need songs that slap and speak truth. Give me “Work From Home Because This Office Is Toxic.” Give me “You’re So Vain, You Probably Own Twitter Now.” Give me “If I Could Turn Back Time, I’d Report You to HR Sooner.” Let me cry to “Total Eclipse of My Pay Gap.” Let me rage-scream “Killing Me Softly With His Podcast.”
And let’s not stop with lyrics. Let’s fix music videos too. No more women dancing in bikini tops next to a guy who looks like a sentient vape pen. Give me women holding Excel sheets. Give me men in therapy. Give me a queer couple slow-dancing in a kitchen lit by fridge light, arguing over what to name their rescue cat. That’s romance. That’s music. That’s the future.
Because yes, she was once, twice, three times a lady. But now? She’s a CEO. She’s a problem. She’s unionizing. She’s singing her own damn chorus. And she’s changing the station