Kick the hinges off—Pink Slip Sniper back, tongue sharpened like a guillotine,
aimin’ dead-center at that First Shift Stand-In, the clown of the deadweight scene.
Lazy-ass silhouette draggin’ his boots like the floor owes him rent,
actin’ pissed off every morning like orgasms were never sent.
He strolls in slow-mo, bare-minimum halo glowin’ dim,
instigator energy leaking off him like spoiled milk brim.
Nobody gives a fuck about his complaints or his mood swings—
he does just enough to not get fired, then flexes like he runs things.
Makes his own damn schedule like he’s CEO of doing nothing,
supervisors and management treat his bullshit like it’s worth something.
They defend his slack while the real ones break spines to keep the place alive,
but he waltzes through the shift like effort don’t apply.
I spit venom so caustic the mic starts steaming,
Killshot cadence so lethal it cuts through his daydreaming.
He wanna talk tough? Bitch, your attitude’s manufactured—
you’re a cardboard villain whose origin story got fractured.
He instigates drama ‘cause it’s the only job he’s good at,
starts fires he can’t finish, then hides under management’s doormat.
Every time I walk in, his face scrunches like labor hurt his feelings—
motherfucker, I’ve seen mop buckets handle more professional dealings.
He’s allergic to effort, commitment, progress, and sweat,
and every excuse he makes smells like “I ain’t doing shit” regret.
I grind circles around his existence with one acrylic nail chipped,
he’s the type to brag “I’m essential” while he’s barely equipped.
I’m the Pink Slip Sniper—
my words load hollow points and hit soft spots clean,
I put frauds like him in bodybags made of rhyme and gasoline.
One verse, one spark, and his ego goes kerosene.
He walks like management’s pet, talks like management’s clone,
but when it comes to results? I carry more weight alone.
He clock-watches like the timecard owes him comfort and praise,
motherfucker couldn’t outwork a broom even on his best days.
I’m explicit with purpose—
I melt his fragile-ass pride with syllables obscene,
skull-kick his delusions till his confidence flees the scene.
He’s background noise, I’m the lyrical guillotine.
Favoritism drips off the system like grease from cheap meat,
they protect his slack while I hold the whole shift in heat.
But when I clap back truth, suddenly I’m “too intense” to critique—
bitch, my intensity’s the only reason y’all ain’t buried in defeat.
This is Pink Slip Sniper warfare—
a one-woman firing squad with a killshot aim,
turning that lazy Stand-In’s storyline into ash and flame.
I don’t miss.
I don’t flinch.
And he’ll never live down the day I carved his excuses out inch by inch.
MIG1274
