Sabrina Carpenter Nobody’s Son: Lyrics, Meaning & Video

Here is a pop Valentine with a red pen through it. A softly bouncing groove backstops a firm boundary.

From the first line, it’s clear what Nobody’s Son is about: being done with men who disappear behind self-help jargon and leave you holding the silence. 

“Here we go again, crying in bed” settles like a 2am draft you never send, then the hook tightens into a verdict: “There’s nobody’s son.”

Carpenter released the track as part of Man’s Best Friend on 29 August 2025, with an official lyric video arriving the same day.

The premise is simple and close to the bone. She is tired of men who are still under construction, who excuse absence with personal growth.

On paper, it is a breakup post-mortem with gallows humour. In your headphones, it is a pressure valve.

The narrator clocks another partner who can’t meet her halfway, clocks her own pattern, and refuses to mythologise it.

The sound leans bright and springy rather than mournful. Think satin-sheen keys, a rubbery low end, crisp handclaps and a pulse that walks rather than sprints.

Reviews on day one keep calling it the album’s emotional bruise and note the tempo sits a notch lower to spotlight her phrasing.

One piece sums it as a “moody pop backdrop” built for a cathartic chorus. 

What makes the lyric bite is how small the promises are. “All my friends in love” is the kind of line you hear over sink water.

“That boy is corrupt” hits like a punchline until it stings. Then the bridge twists the blade with a half-prayer, half-taunt: “Could you raise him to love me, maybe?”

Each fragment is compact enough to stick to your day.

She has been telegraphing this tonal mix for months, touring a line between camp comedy and private ache.

When Entertainment Weekly asked about her delightfully morbid visual streak at an album pop-up, she joked about “always killing men,” a wink that makes the song’s emotional restraint feel deliberate rather than coy. 

The track sits at 3:02, short and unsentimental, the kind of single that slips into your day and refuses to leave.

Writing credits go to Sabrina Carpenter, Amy Allen and John Ryan, with production by Ryan, Carpenter and Jack Antonoff.

You can hear the pop instincts keeping the drums springy and the synths glassy while her top-line hangs clean in the centre.

We hear the room split almost evenly between instant crush and slow-burn convert.

For us, Nobody’s Son either pops straight away or settles into a warm back-half glow that pays out after a couple of spins.

We treat that chatter less like a scoreboard and more like a map of how the song threads through a day.

Pulling back, the album fit feels tidy. Man’s Best Friend toggles wink and wound, and Nobody’s Son sits at the centre of that tug as a quiet proof: a restrained pop cut that trusts the writing while the production plays soft shoulder.

If you want to trace Carpenter’s broader stance, her July-August press cycle is revealing.

“I write songs about exactly how I feel,” she told one interview this summer, a simple statement that explains the blunt edges of Nobody’s Son more than any decode ever could.

Elsewhere she deadpanned that she loves entertaining as much as “shutting the [expletive] up and being to myself,” a line that reads like the song’s mission statement: say just enough, leave the mess off camera.

If there is a quibble to register, it is that the melodic chassis is very tidy.

The chorus resolves exactly where you expect, the bridge lands its punch then steps back, and the outro bows out before you have time to ache.

Others will argue the restraint is the trick, because the compact structure keeps your focus on the words. Today, that feels like the right trade-off.

There is also the culture-side reading baked into the title. Turning the once-comforting phrase “somebody’s son” inside out, the song refuses to excuse poor behaviour on the grounds of a man’s origin story.

It is funny, a little cruel, and quietly liberating. In a season where her visuals toy with power play and her singles flirt with menace, Nobody’s Son offers the opposite posture: standing back, naming a pattern, choosing not to carry it.

One final layer belongs to the lyrics themselves. If you hear “Here we go again, crying in bed” as pure melodrama, the next lines undercut that by listing the ordinary humiliations of being the odd one out.

If you hear “That boy is corrupt” and laugh, the sting remains. And if you hear “There’s nobody’s son” and feel a chill, that is the point: she is not asking for sympathy, only closing a door.

As for early standing, album roundups and ranked lists will shuffle all weekend, but the centre holds: fans are already naming Nobody’s Son among their keepers, critics are arguing over how neat it is, and Carpenter is smiling through the noise.

From an artist who just threw a Hollywood cemetery party for another single and quipped about her habit of fictional male fatalities, this steady, un-showy track is the curveball. It makes patience sound like power.

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Full Nobody’s Son Lyrics from Sabrina Carpenter

Verse 1
“Hi, I hope you’re great
I think it’s time we took a break
So I can grow emotionally”
That’s what he said to me

Chorus
Here we go again, crying in bed, what a familiar feeling
All my friends in love, and I’m the one they call for a third wheeling
Probably should’ve guessed, he’s like the rest, so fine and so deceiving
There’s nobody’s son, not anyone left for me to believe in

Verse 2
Me? No, yeah, I’m good
Just thought that he eventually would cave in, rеach out
But no siree, he discovered sеlf-control (He discovered it this week)
This week (Oh, ah)

Chorus
Here we go again, crying in bed, what a familiar feeling
All my friends in love, and I’m the one they call for a third wheeling
Probably should’ve guessed, he’s like the rest, so fine and so deceiving
There’s nobody’s son, not anyone left for me to believe in(Believe in, no, woah, woah)

Bridge
That boy is corrupt (Ah)
Could you raise him to love me, maybe?
He sure fucked me up (Ah-ah)
And, yes, I’m talking ’bout your baby
That boy is corrupt (Ah)
Get PTSD on the daily
He sure fucked me up (Ah-ah)
And, yes, I’m talking ’bout your baby (Yeah)

Chorus
Here we go again, crying in bed, what a familiar feeling
All my friends in love, and I’m the one they call for a third wheeling
Probably should’ve guessed, he’s like the rest, so fine and so deceiving
There’s nobody’s son, not anyone left for me to believe in